Chatting about school the other day with some posh friends of ours (we don’t make a habit of it, believe you me us them), we were hearing the most scandalous school-for-scandal stories about the goings-on of certain teachers. You know, the sort of thing where it’s all presented as fun and natural and healthy but with a couple of years of hindsight it’s obviously, you know, perved up.
Exhibit A: one friend attended an all-boys school where the swimming master (would you call that a master?) insisted it was more hygienic to swim naked. And even more hygienic was to bounce as many times as you could on the diving board naked. What’s all that about? Well, it’s pretty obvious what all that’s about.
Exhibit B: again, a swimming ‘master’, this time scrupulous that swimmers should wear exactly the right size trunks, would get the class to line up and would go along that line pulling out the waistband of each pair of swimming trunks to ascertain if they were – 3 bears-style – too big, too small or just right.
And we got to thinking over a Sainsbury’s Custard Slice (two for £1.05) if anyone else, looking back, had any strange rituals that were really and truly just a secret way for sir to fill the wank bank. Anyone?