Dear Tony...

I’m not sure what I’m getting for Christmas this year. It could be a new phone. It could be a new laptop. It could be a new something else. Either way, I’m sure I'll be happy with it.

The thing is, I’m not really a materialistic person. Sure, new trainers are better than old ones, and I’d rather be seen with an i-phone 6 than an ancient Nokia, but when it comes to saving up for these things I’m more inclined to spend my money on immediate pleasures, like food and drink.

As a result you might think me underwhelmed by Christmas and the concept of receiving lots of lovely presents. However, there’s more to this time of year than getting a new watch or a fancy suit. It’s about giving gifts as well, it’s about the Nativity story, it’s about being generous to those in need and about families coming together to celebrate each other. If you’re now reaching for the sick bucket then I apologise, but I hope you agree it’s true!

I’ve been thinking about what Christmas would be like if for some reason everyone were stuck at school. As unappealing as that idea sounds, especially if you’re curled up right now on a deluxe sofa with mulled wine in hand, it might actually be good fun. Think about it – Christmas spent with your mates rather than with Aunt Gertrude, who you are forced to make agonising small talk with and who glares at you every time you reach for the Quality Street.

In all honesty, it’s not that fanciful an idea. If climate change goes berserk anytime soon as we’re told it might, then who’s to say a freak blizzard won't snow us in after term ends?

Although us boys might relish the idea of all-day snowball fights, the housemasters would it. Apart from not getting their holidays as promised, some boys in the house would soon get very bored, and with no divs to attend or EWs to complete they would turn to that easiest relief from tedium - breaking the rules.

Smoking and drinking in the corridors would become commonplace, and at night gangs would form and prowl the house looking for rooms to ransack. The usual mood of mild deference would make way for an irrepressible anarchy.

The most urgent problem I foresee however is the following - where would all the presents come from? Presuming the blizzard has kept Santa’s sleighs grounded and all other mail routes are cut off, then everyone’s two main benefactors – the rents and St Nick – would be unable to deliver their goodies.

One way of getting round this would be to organise an inter-house Secret Santa. Yet, as much as I would love to give Runty a One Direction poster as his main Christmas present, I’m not sure getting back some smelly socks or tampons in return would be quite as enjoyable.

The only solution therefore would be to approach Tony Little, illustrious headmaster of the school, and solicit him to dip his paw into one of the numerous funds (rowing or music would be good choices) and withdraw enough cash to give us all a merry Christmas.

No doubt everyone would be clamouring for the latest smartphone or tablet, but as someone who isn’t turned on by those things my Christmas wish-list would be rather different. Instead of asking for possessions, I would request certain favours. If we had we been snowed in this Christmas for example, my letter would look something like this:

Dear Tony,

Thank for being such a fabulous headmaster. I really like your moustache. If I was a girl I’d probably have a crush on you. I’d really appreciate it if you could do the following for me this Christmas:

• Make me house captain
• Give me a cheeky smile as you're leaving chapel somtime
• Praise me in assembly for being a top, top lad
• Get me into a good uni (wink wink)
• Grow a goatee and dye it pink in aid of breast cancer
• Dress up on Mufti Day
• Cut off Runty's balls (preferably with a spoon)
• Go back on your decision to resign (I love you so much)

 

Love,

The Eton Boy xxx

Of course, being the consummate professional he is Tony would hardly agree to any of these. But he might lean back in his chair, let out a chuckle or two whilst thinking ‘what a scallywag!’ and then go back to clipping his nails.

With that image in mind I wish everyone reading this the very merriest of Christmases. I hope you drink well, eat well, and don’t get plonked next to Aunt Gertrude!

Sock Supper

Hooray! Hurrah! Get in! Back of the net!

The Michaelmas half officially ended yesterday and although I didn’t quite celebrate it with the banal exclamations above I am nevertheless in a fantastic mood! As I type right now I have a mince pie sitting beside me waiting to be devoured, Christmas songs blasting out from my speakers and the smell of a delicious dinner wafting up from downstairs. Life is pretty good!

I can't deny that the trials results I got back yesterday have increased my festive joy. Despite all the distractions from revision that I talked about last week I was chuffed to receive a decent trials card, up there with my best performances. Now I can enjoy even more my two favourite Christmas activities - seeing how little money I can spend on my family's presents and pointing out to them all the unrealistic bits in Home Alone. ‘Tis the season to be jolly, as they say!

I've actually been in full festivespirit since last week, when my house had our Christmas dinner. Although every year it falls during the exam period, it is always one of the highlights of the term and goes by the name of Sock Supper. Why this is the case I do not know, but thankfully actual socks, smelly or clean, have no role in the proceedings.

Sock Supper is a foodie's dream with everything you could wish for – turkey, roast potatoes, gravy, sausage and bacon, cranberry sauce, veg, Christmas pud and brandy butter. Then you have the usual accessories thrown in too - crackers, silly jokes, paper hats and a glass of wine or two.The mood is buoyant and for an hour or two at least trials becomes a distant memory. 

As well as celebrating Christmas, Sock Supper also focuses on the B blockers who will be departing the following June. They all sit on high table, along with a beak of their choice, and throughout the night they receive preferential treatment, like receiving their food first, while us plebs look on and think ‘one day I'll be up there’.

After all have gorged to satisfaction it is the time for speeches. The first one up is the house master, who might thank the guests for coming, gives a resumé of the year so far and tell a funny story or two. Then someone else might say a few words, the deputy house master for example, before the floor is vacated for the highlight of the evening –  speech of the house captain.

Regular readers will know that I have made no attempt to conceal my ambitions for the house captaincy. There are many reasons for this – the prestige of the position, the fancy waistcoat, the best room in the house, the adulation from naïve F blockers etc, but the main motivation above all for me has to be making the speech at Sock Supper.

This is because the typical speech is not what you'd imagine – a polite appreciation of all gathered - but is instead a merciless ribbing of all the other B blockers at the table. There are few limits to what can be said, and as a result I cannot think of another opportunity I might have to stand up and tear to shreds in front of everyone there the reputations of the people I’ve lived with for the last four and a bit years. 

Of course, most speeches are quite good-natured, teasing rather than humiliating, but the superiority one must feel by making it is enormous. Every embarrassing thing that anyone has said or done can now be brought to the attention of the house, if they weren't aware of it already.

It goes without saying that if I do end up as house captain Runty is going to get it in the neck. I’ve already drafted sections of my speech in my head and he takes up a fair chunk of it. It will open with something like this:

‘Good evening ladies, gentlemen, and in the case of one of us here (pointing at Runty) a disease-ridden rodent!’

Then I will give a brief summary of the rest of my peers quickly before returning for the killer blow. There are several approaches I could take to this:

-          Reel off all of the skeletons in Runty’s cupboards.

-          Be incredibly condescending towards him e.g. ‘Runty surprised all of us this summer when he actually passed some of his GCSEs.

-          Fabricate large portions of the speech, for instance: ‘Recently, Runty has taken to entering Eton Wick, looking for casual hook-ups with foreign men.’ 

 Along with the house captain’s speech, another key element of Sock Supper is the alcohol. When I say this I don’t mean the licit consumption of alcohol, since everyone gets a glass or two of wine during the evening, but rather the very illicit drinking of booze that continues after the festivities.

Generally this is the reserve of the B blockers, who with more wine in their systems than the rest of us are eager to carry on the party. You might think that the looming presence of trials or Oxbridge interviews would dissuade them doing this, never mind the punishments that result from being caught. But for some reason it’s kind of a tradition in every house and most adhere to it quite strictly. 

It's impossible that the school doesn’t know about this going on, since every year boys in one house or another are caught doing it. If they really cared about it then house masters would definitely be patrolling the corridors into the early hours. Some joyless ones do actually do this (naming no names), but a laissez-faire is more commonly adopted. It’s one of those situations in which if people make themselves conspicuous i.e. by being rowdy or vomiting everywhere then they will dealt with be dealt with severely, but otherwise most house masters will not go out of their way to catch offenders.

This year my house was particularly calm, the result of a rather sensible B block. The same couldn’t be said for what happened when I was in E block however, when the older boys got battered on a cocktail of vodka and more vodka. I don’t think anyone got busted, but I do remember being caught up in it as I left my room for a midnight pee. 

There in the corridor in front of me was the biggest of all the B blockers staggering clumsily towards me. He was a prop in one of the rugby teams which meant he must have drunk an enormous amount, and upon seeing me he called out my name. I thought he wanted help in getting back to his room so I moved towards him, but immediately it when I was engulfed in an enormous bear hug.

He stank of alcohol and began slurring into my ear ‘I love you Eton Boy’ and other such quips. ‘Thanks’ I muttered whilst trying to extricate myself, failing miserably. Then to make matters worse, he stopped walking and we stood there in the corridor, locked in this awkward embrace.

I didn't know what to do and two minutes passed before anything changed, which was when the B blocker began, very quietly to snore into my shoulder. I couldn't believe he was asleep, and I panicked as all his weight began to transfer itself onto my body. My legs shook under his limp body and my arms were searing with pain. It was only a matter of time before I could no longer resist, and like a giant mortally wounded in a movie, we tilted very slowly to one side and then, with a loud noise, crashed to the ground.

Fortunately I remained in one pain, and the B blocker’s arms had also come away in the fall. Despite the collision the boy was still lying there asleep, snoring away with his cracker hat on and salvia dripping from  his mouth.

I didn't stick around to find out how long he was there for, but as I went back into my room I thought to myself that if I, in three years time, ended up like he was, then it would definitely have been a great Sock Supper.

Procrastination

Normally, I'm not a procrastinator. Lately however, I’ve been guilty of it. Although there are several reasons for this, most of the blame lies with one person - the Princess. Since our failed catch-up at Long Leave I’ve been messaging her as usual, playing it cool and trying to impress her. But on her Facebook page I’ve noticed a worrying development over the past couple of weeks, a very worrying development indeed.

It has nothing to do with her statuses (which are often quite cringey) but with the fact that she’s been tagged in a large number of photos with the same guy.

Understandably, this has greatly perturbed me. But what's worse is that this boy, who seems to be my age, looks to be one of the most unpleasant-looking human beings you could meet. When I say 'unpleasant' I don't ugly, but rather that he looks like a contender for bellend of the year. He oozes obnoxiousness in every picture I've seen of him, so much so that I feel sick just thinking about him.

Of course, all this is my impression from some photos, but as they say a picture paints a thousand words and in this case it paints two thousand. To give an idea of what he looks like, imagine an oval face with sunken eyes and thick eyebrows. On top of that put one of those stupid short back and sides haircuts, the type favoured by footballers, and on his body put clothes you'd likely see on a catwalk i.e. that are ridiculous in real-life.

Now imagine this person pulling the same annoying pout in every photo – a slight smirk with one eyebrow raised, so infuriating it makes you want to stab him. Arrange this pose in one three settings: him with girls, him posing with alcohol and him next to something impressive, and you have the extent of his profile pictures.

Hopefully now you'll understand my angst. Indeed, he seems to be such a prat that reminds me of the Jedward twins - both aesthetically offensive and shameless in behaviour. The only difference is that while Jedward possess a modicum of talent, this guy clearly has none.

In spite of all this, the Princess is either oblivious or has been blinded by some unknown force. Although as yet there’s no evidence to suggest that the two of them are more than friends (no pictures of them smooching, no awkward messages of  love etc) I can't hep feeling like a green-eyed monster.

The cause of this, besides the frequency of their appearances together, is their body language in the photos that I've examined. More often than not, his arms are draped around her, occasionally in proximity to intimate areas, but rather than resist this she seems to enjoy it, reciprocating his physical affection and beaming widely at the camera. In a couple of images she's teamed up with another girl to kiss him on both cheeks, while he stands there grinning and doing a thumbs up. It's sickening for me, not only because he's such a clown but because I wish I were in his place.

The two of them have also exchanged messages on her Facebook wall, mostly underneath videos he's posted and she has 'liked'. The conversation is generally banal, but can also be irritatingly flirty and to do with in-jokes of theirs. Whenever people have such public exchanges on Facebook it gets on my nerves, as I think they might as well be shouting 'Hey everyone, look at us- we're really funny and happy and are confident in talking to the opposite sex, unlike you! Hope you're well! xxx'. Honestly, I think the government should pass some kind of law against this type of behaviour, so lacking it modesty as it tends to be.

As you can see, this whole saga has left me rather paranoid and has plagued my mind with doubts over what I should do next. After careful consideration however, I've come up with three options:

- Ask the Princess straight up what’s happening between her and Jedward

- Forget entirely about her and turn my attention to other girls

- Carry on as normal and see how things develop.

The problem with this is that none of them are that appealing. The first one screams ‘stalker’ and would destroy the cool image I've been cultivating.

The second is easier said than done and not entirely rational - not only do I have no concrete evidence of anything going on between them, but I also do not happen to be Hugh Hefner with a harem of girls to call on. In fact, the Princess is one of only five females in my phonebook, and that's not excluding relatives.

All of which leaves number three as the only viable option – to carry on as normal and see what happens next. But ‘normal’ in my case means checking Facebook every five minutes for new developments, wasting valuable time which, given the middle of trials, should be spent revising.

Thankfully, the exams I've sat over the past three days have gone quite well and fingers crossed that trend will continue. At least I can be content with being cleverer than Jedward. From what I've seen so far his grammar is atrocious, frequently mistaking 'your' for 'you're', and he's dropped in some clangers such as 'laff' and 'defenately'.

Maybe my best chance therefore is to get him alone with the Princess and show her how ignorant he is. And if that fails, well, there are always rumours to be spread. After all, being a Taylor Swift fan and dressing up in knickers isn't too unbelievable, is it?