Low life
The cutting edge
Jeffrey Bernard
Anyway, I was there preparing to go into the Merchant Navy and it was only episodes like that which made me change 'But, before I begin, be it known that all tights to this are reserved. No part may be reproduced or transmitted.' course and steer for Soho. Well, it was a very painful and unpleasant experience, but, had there been a European Court in 1948, I would have avoided it like the plague for fear of having the sentence increased. In Germany, I wouldn't be at all surprised if the maximum amount of cuts that their naval schools can dish out isn't 24. Of course, I had to keep lowering my trousers to show the other boys what dam- age had been done and I was told that the marks ranged from a deep yellow to pur- ple. I have to admit that I felt more than a little resentful at the time, but now, and in a slightly perverse sort of way, I mind not at all since unpleasant experiences such as that have made most subsequent calamities — with the exception of my appallingly bad health — seem no more than trivial misfor- tunes at a holiday camp. Had that punish- ment been carried out by a step-father I would have shot him long ago, and I hope that the boy in the current case wins hands down. Good riddance to the days and years of trousers down.
Now I am strangely glad that I went to Pangbourne which, from what I could see on two recent visits, is a very good school, especially since it has become co-educa- tional. But, as you can see, it shook me considerably and has stuck vividly in my mind. I never realised at the time, but, shortly after, when I served what little time I did of my National Service, it helped me cope with the young men in my barrack- room who were all what was called 'work- ing class' and very tough, or so they thought. I remember once having a fist fight with one bloke who, in the last sec- onds of our encounter, floored me and then rubbed my face into the gravel of the parade ground. Very soon after that we had a drink together in the Naafi and I simply reflected that, in the future, I would be more careful choosing who to throw punches at,
But this recent news about unteachable boys and the poor boy who was thrashed by his step-father has brought back a load of memories which were for a long time like horrid ghosts and which took a long time to lay. There used to be legends built up about various masters and how hard and savagely they could beat you, and I lived in terror for a while at one prep school during the war of a master who was reputed to cane you so hard that the force of the blow would propel you so violently across the room that he placed a mattress against the wall to soften the crunch of your flying into it. One afternoon I ran away from the school but since it was Colet Court, the preparatory school to St Paul's, it was only a penny bus-ride to Notting Hill Gate where I lived at the time. I suppose that when boys want to run away from school they get taxis.
Now that we are on the verge of a law against smoking — six cuts for that at Pangbourne – there must be a law against corporal punishment.
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