The Fourth of June

Yesterday was my fourth and penultimate Fourth of June event, and despite not anticipating it as eagerly as in previous years it also turned out to be my most memorable!

The Fourth of June is a bit like St Andrew’s Day in November – an opportunity for family and friends to visit the school and see what we get up to – albeit with more pomp and pleasanter weather. If your brow is furrowing over the name of the event you’ll be pleased to know that the ‘Fourth of June’ is a misnomer – although it was once held on the actual 4^th June today it takes place on the final Wednesday of May, yesterday being the 27^th.

The event takes its name from the birthday of King George III, who despite being a loony was clear-sighted enough to become a benefactor to Eton. Today many people don’t know the history of the day though, and see it more as an occasion to see parents and make merry in the midst of exams. As the only real gathering of parents and boys it is in some ways our equivalent of the end of year speech day.

In fact, speeches form one of the oldest Fourth of June traditions. Every year in Upper School people gather to hear Sixth Form Select,  the brightest boys in the school, declaim speeches of all sorts. Sometimes they even speak in Greek or Latin, which is an experience if nothing else.

However, the real action of the Fourth of June kicks off the night before. And when I say action, I mean action. For this is when the CCF (Combined Cadet Forces) hold their annual floodlit tattoo on College Field, a jamboree of blank bullets and shells, loud noises and bangs, boys running across the grass and doing commando rolls, shouting at each other as if in Saving Private Ryan and generally acting like they're in a real-life war zone. This year they performed a re-enactment of the Battle of Waterloo, which I’m not sure was entirely how I imagined the famous battle, but was at least very entertaining.

The day of the Fourth of June itself is when the masses arrive. Many thousands of parents, siblings, friends and girlfriends attend, and with parking space at a premium they arrive early to grab the best spots. After the usual breakfast and College Chapel service all are free to begin the festivities. 

Knowing what to do and what to see is the hardest part of the day. As well as the speeches in Upper School, there are football, cricket and tennis fixtures, choral and band concerts, and several exhibitions. At some point in the day though every parent heads over to their son’s house to see the housemaster and drink with other parents. Then, later, everyone flocks to Agars sports fields where hundreds of parents erect tents and gazebos to conduct one of the world's largest outdoor picnics.

Indeed, Agars is where things get really interesting on the Fourth of June. This is because it is a scene of  alcohol, and plenty of it. But given that nearly every boy is underage, let alone forbidden to drink under normal school rules, how can this be monitored? The result is the greyest of grey areas, in which us boys are told several times before the day by our house master that we are allowed to have a drink, but not too many. That although we can walk around swigging Stella from a can if we are found excessively inebriated we will be punished severely. In a nutshell: don’t get (too) drunk!

But of course, people always do. Back in E block Runty decided it would be a good challenge to consume the best part of a bottle of champagne before midday, and ended up being sick into a nearby hedge. Very annoyingly he wasn’t found out. Then there is always a gaggle of girls each year who get invited down by a Don Juan in C block, and are then plied with such amounts of sugary booze that they end up rolling around in the grass with their shoes off. At least they can act with impunity.

The most iconic image of the Fourth of June however, beyond the CCF tattoo, the speeches, the house master’s drinks and the Agar’s picnics, is the Procession of Boats. Walk past College Field on the right hand side and you will find the River Thames quietly snake in towards Eton. It is here that on every Fourth of June the rowers from all the top crews in the school row past the throng gathered on the bank, and in a slightly bizarre yet impressive display of balance stand up in their boats with oars in hand and salute the crowd. They all wear effeminate nineteenth century boating outfits, which along with the flower-covered boaters on their heads makes them look like something out of an Oscar Wilde orgy. The idiosyncrasies of tradition.

One problem with viewing the Procession of Boats is finding a good vantage point. Room is not plentiful, and if you desire a decent place from which to see the action it means turning up early. For this reason I hadn’t bothered watching it for the previous two years, preferring to stay up at Agar’s with beer in hand. But this year, on something of a whim, I decided to go over with my parents. It was certainly a good decision.

Somehow, in spite of turning up late, we managed to bag ourselves a decent patch on the bank where we settled down to witness the action. The first boats went by and my parents were oohing and aahing like toddlers at a fireworks show. I had to remind them that this was a fairly serious spectacle and not to make a scene. But all that changed when the Junior Colts A boat made its way down the river.

As soon as I saw the boat coming round the bend I sensed something odd might happen. The way it was moving seemed somehow different to the other boats. When they reached the crowd the first boy stood up without fuss. As did the second and third boys. Indeed, everything was going well. But then out of nowhere one of the boys started to wobble. And then the boy behind him joined in. Soon everyone had jelly feet and before we knew it the boat was filling with water! Everyone was on their feet cheering and hollering, wishing it to go down – one father behind me was chanting ‘Sink! Sink! Sink’ and someone else shouted ‘TITANIC!’ As if in quicksand the boys knees and waists sunk ever so slowly underwater and the noise levels reached a crescendo as the tips of their boaters disappeared beneath the surface!

Truly, I cannot think of a time when I have laughed so hard. Everyone was in hysterics, and as the boys swam to shore they were given a standing ovation. It may have been a disaster for them, but even they seemed to find the funny side of it. The manoeuver of standing up in the boat is certainly awkward, but it is apparently the first time a crew has sunk for many decades. I feel blessed to have witnessed one.

The Fourth of June is a great day out, but more than ever this year I noticed one of its negative aspects. At times it feels like it can place too much emphasis on a boy’s background. When at school no-one really cares about where other people come from, whether you are the son of a multi-billionaire or if you grew up on a council estate and need a bursary to attend Eton. Everyone mucks in and gets along.

But on the Fourth of June there is no way of hiding your roots. The fact that so many parents, especially mothers, treat it as a purely social occasion, means that there is a lot of one-upmanship. The fancy Land Rovers and Mercedes are brought out, the designer dresses and handbags are on show and everyone vies to have the best picnic on Agars, with massive gazebos overflowing with fresh salmon and Moet. Invitations are sent to other well-connected parents weeks before the day and you make sure that everyone who’s anyone is going to come along to your gig.

Fine. I guess fundamentally there’s nothing wrong with that. But if you happen to come from a world not dominated by dinner parties and having lunch at the polo it can be overwhelming. Humiliating even. How to keep up with the Joneses if their way of life is so different to yours?

One experience yesterday illustrated this perfectly. I was wandering around on Agars when I went past one of the bigger tents and decided to take a peek inside. It resembled something of a Roman feast inside, with some of the finest food and wine you can imagine, all laid out liberally on tables. The guests tucking in were clearly a select crowd judging from their conversations about holidaying in Cannes and Barbados. I carried on walking and then two cars further down came across a very different picture. There, in his family's modest Volvo, was one of the F blockers in my house seated with his parents. They were drinking normal-looking sandwiches and drinking tea from a thermos. Clearly being it their first Fourth of June they had had no idea of what to expect, and despite there being enough food to feed the five thousand just feet away no-one at the other tent had considered inviting them in.   

I don't wish to sound moralistic. Some people will always have more money than others, and they are free to use it as they wish. It's just painful sometimes when it’s so overt.

At least everyone, regardless of their picnic, car or brand of champagne found the sinking of the Junior Colts boat side-splittingly funny. Humour is a great leveller.