The Final Pages
The Final Pages
Ante Etonam The old Etonian would like to thank the gods of shooting for another fine season. Admittedly, the invitations were not as forthcoming as they have been in recent years because of these unfortunate economic times forcing up taxes and stopping the usual inaugural bonus from coming through. The old Etonian takes consolation in the fact that he was left with a couple more days to keep up with the hunt and make an annual return to Eton for the field game season. However, the old Etonian was profoundly disappointed by the derogatory comments he received about his age during these ‘new’ camp versions of bullies, recently introduced by the health and safety adjudicatory contactless competitiveless rumpolestiltskinian monitory advisory review committee, as well as the constant mimicking by boys of that frightfully uncivil rapper from Camden Dapdub with the use of words such as ‘like’ and ‘rut’. The old Etonian fears that the old values of Eton are diminishing with boys being limited to 1 beer after field game matches and no gin whatsoever in sight. In the end, the old Etonian decided that, after the disapproving look he received from a rather tubby slap–headed beak whilst taking out his rizzla’s and fresh Virginia tobacco, it was about time he called the Bentley over to head over to Lord Marquis Juraniumasquin’s estate for the next day’s usual shooting fixture.
Surviving Short Leave Returning to school is always a strain. Parents recite the same lines about how delicious their tea at the ritz was, and their short break to New York, whilst you secretly wish you could go to sleep because unlike like them, you haven’t gotten any sleep over the two days you had off. It was enough time to think about filling up the bath, and just enough time to get out of it, and get dressed to go downstairs again and see everyone. And then there was the admin. If you survive the torment of a twenty boys wanting to know to exactly whose room the staff have moved things, and where they can find their prized, top of the line, £600 chair that mommy paid for, then you have to tuck the cheeky little F Blocker in, who thinks he can get away with staying out of bed for twenty more minutes because he was only brushing his teeth. Then you have to deal with all the excuses as to why the purple-haired B blocker with vomit on his jersey has come back to the house at 1 o’clock, and hear how it was really Flossie’s birthday back home and they wanted to make a thing of it. Just when you think it’s all over and you’re lying down to a cup of tea, the scrawny C Blocker, who’s probably been out smoking twice already, despite only having been back for two hours, comes up, tears in his eyes. Having survived listening to his life story, and how the girl of his dreams left him, you then hear that several of the E block have received rather strange injuries in some form of ‘Corridor Cricket’.
Arts Review - Lent 2011
Vulturius... As the vulture tucks into a hearty meal of School Hall asbestos and the cobwebs gathering in the electronics section of the Design Department, he watches the feeble boys scurry back and forth playing what is known as the ‘Field Game’. From high atop his lofty perch on College Chapel (he was taken on a tour by the chaplain 200 years ago and has been stuck there ever since), the intricate formations and tactics used remind him of the Great Snowball War of the winter of 1939. All the same, he laughs at their ignorance of the true nature of the Field Game – it is, in fact, an élite conscription test designed to select the toughest, most able men to train in the war against Harrow. Apparently; the only way to beat this fearsome enemy is to run back and forth for 40 minutes chasing a ball, making them so confused about why we would possibly play this game that their heads swivel off their shoulders and rifle into the upper atmosphere. Or maybe the vulture just made that up – after all, he had been feeling light−headed since he celebrated Jesus’ birthday (old Etonian, don’t you know) by pilfering all the confiscated ‘schnouts and bevvies’ from the Lower Mandem’s secret stash.
Seeing as this is, in fact, The Arts Review and not The Lad Review, the vulture feels somewhat inclined to include some of the artistic observances he has seen this year. For a start, the Rock Society can no longer exclude from its membership those with reasonably loose jeans after the European Court on Human Rights insisted it is a form of child abuse and discrimination on the grounds of whether or not one wants to have children in later life. Meanwhile, the Praed Society continues to produce poetry of great renown – some of the great works such as ‘Octopus Angst’, ‘Toast Boat’ and ‘Oh God why doesn’t anybody like me?’ continue to amaze readers a whole three days on. On an aesthetic note, the Art Schools is still a building site, forcing all the staff, technician and pupils to work in the broom closet, having to crawl around and whisper so as not to bring about a seismic earthquake which would cause the whole of the parade ground to collapse into the hole underneath the Farrer Theatre. Apparently certain C–Block art students are still unaware of this and so continue to blast out grimy dubstep whilst trying to capture the delicate beauty of the wildflowers they are painting.
One Final Note: O! Wanderers in the shadowed land Despair not! For though dark they stand, All woods there be must end at last, And see the open sun go past: The setting sun, the rising sun, The day’s end, or the day begun. For east or west all woods must fail.
J.R.R.Tolkien ‘All Woods Must Fail’ Arts Review - Lent 2011
The lent edition of the arts review.