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Alma Mater
May. 1st, 2006 10:13 amMy old school (which is a "public school", meaning a private school, a fee-paying forcing-house of privilege) sends me its annual old boy's mag. Very glossy. The headmaster lauds his achievements. We are told about exam results, sports achievements, building projects. Yes, yes, yes, I mutter; but why won't you tell me about the real life of the school- like who's hot, who's smoking what and who's going to bed with whom.
At least I'm not having to pay for these ghastly sales brochures. "How about remembering us in your will?" they hint.
In a pig's arse, friend.
The mag is full of faces. Privileged faces. Crusty and ugly and hooting drunkenly at some awful reunion dinner. Oh look, there's Sir Tim Rice!
And here in a single frame are my two least favourite teachers: the baby-faced paedophile and the creepy chaplain. Forty years have passed. The paedophile is no longer baby-faced. The creepy chaplain looks like a lizard.
At least I'm not having to pay for these ghastly sales brochures. "How about remembering us in your will?" they hint.
In a pig's arse, friend.
The mag is full of faces. Privileged faces. Crusty and ugly and hooting drunkenly at some awful reunion dinner. Oh look, there's Sir Tim Rice!
And here in a single frame are my two least favourite teachers: the baby-faced paedophile and the creepy chaplain. Forty years have passed. The paedophile is no longer baby-faced. The creepy chaplain looks like a lizard.
