This book is dedicated to my Dad,
Dave van de Ruit, who always told me stories.

Sunday 17th January 1993

MEN’S BREAKFAST

09:15 I was woken by devious whispering from outside my bedroom door. My parents were definitely up to no good because the only time they whisper in the passage is when I’m sick or if they think I’m suicidal. Stupidly, I grew curious and sauntered out to reconnoitre for any potential landmines. Dad was whistling Roger Whittaker and frying sausages in the kitchen, while my mother greeted me in a high-pitched and unnatural voice from the lounge before disappearing out of the front door jangling her keys.

‘Just taking Mum out for her tea and crumpets at the Bot Gardens,’ she called from the driveway and with an unpleasant grating of the gears she was gone.

‘Send the old bag my love!’ hollered Dad before plunging a steak knife into an extremely large Russian sausage which in turn squirted boiling juice in his face and onto his arm.

My father issued a hysterical scream and retaliated by kicking the door off the washing machine. The broken washing machine door led to further tirades about the Japanese (DEFY), my father’s Jonah tendencies, and the diminishing quality of your standard Eskort sausage. Having made my tea while nodding sympathetically at Dad’s rant, I attempted to extricate myself from the scene of acrimony and make a break for the safety of my bedroom where Tom Wolfe’s excellent Bonfire of the Vanities awaited. I didn’t quite pull off the plan because my father scampered across the dining room and slammed the door shut before I could reach it.

‘A men only father and son breakfast,’ he said, ushering me to a seat and darting back to the kitchen to turn the Russians and chop a tomato in half. I sipped at my tea and gazed out of the window at the half-mowed lawn. The lawnmower’s lid was open and most of the engine lay in a heap of spare parts on the slasto beside the pool.

I didn’t have a good feeling about this at all.

‘Good old English breakfast just the way your grandmother made it,’ Dad announced rather emotionally slapping an enormous tray-sized plate of fried breakfast down in front of me.

‘Been dry,’ said Dad to get the ball rolling.

‘Helluva dry,’ I agreed and set to work cutting through a Russian.

‘They reckon it’s called El Niño,’ added my father gravely, shoving a fork load of food into his mouth.

There was a brief period of silence as I salted my eggs and Dad poured orange juice with a shaky hand, before carefully rearranging the breakfast on his plate.

‘So … how goes things on the girlfriend front?’ he asked without the slightest shred of warning.

‘Very, very slow,’ I replied gravely, and attempted to look like the kind of boy who might never think about sex, girlfriends, let alone bizarre sex acts with girlfriends.

‘Really, boy?’ said Dad with some concern.

‘Extremely slow … barely off the mark,’ I said, hoping that Dad might register the cricket reference and that would be the end of it.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

‘I thought we might have a little chat over our men’s breakfast,’ he said.

‘Right,’ I replied and felt terribly nauseous.

‘Brekkie okay?’ asked Dad, while looking despairingly at my untouched plate.

‘Delicious,’ I lied, miming further chewing.

And then out of the dark end of left field came:

‘Johnny, you could think of the male penis as very much like your average Russian sausage.’

The blood rushed to my face. My father had already speared the Russian with his fork and held the dripping creature aloft for examination.

‘Size is important, my boy, but no lady south of the Vaal likes a freak.’ He nodded knowingly like he was deeply knowledgeable about such women.

‘Right,’ I replied through gritted teeth and we both stared at his sausage.

‘Just like the fairer sex, Johnny, fried eggs are all about timing and probably enjoyed best when flipped over.’

I watched in horror as Dad wrapped a tomato skin around the end of the Russian in a suggestive fashion. When I say ‘suggestive fashion’ I mean that he kept looking at me oddly and saying, ‘Watch closely, my boy, this is life and death …’

‘Just for precautions,’ he said firmly, after accomplishing his fairly lengthy mission of wrapping the skin of a fried tomato around the uneaten side of his Russian.

‘Trust me, boy; there is no greater disaster in a man’s life than hearing the terrible news that his wife is pregnant.’

I nodded.

‘Your life is over, Johnny,’ he said desperately.

‘I understand,’ I replied and really did.

‘If you haven’t had a threesome by twenty-five, then kiss the fantasy goodbye!’ blurted my father growing increasingly upset and red faced about matters.

There followed a fairly long pause while I wound down the clock by re-salting my already re-salted fried tomato.

‘Use protection, Johnny. At the very least it will keep your jalogi free from the VD plague.’

I stared at my plate and nodded again.

‘Frank says it’s all over the place,’ he added.

Then without doubt God answered my silent prayers and the phone rang.

It was Amber from next door asking if Dad could help her with a blocked drain. He was gone in seconds and one of the most excruciating moments of my short life was over. In case my father returned and tried to stoke up his men’s breakfast again, I jumped on my bike and rode the streets of lower Durban North at a furious pace while trying not to think of sex, threesomes, and the VD plague.

Thankfully, I never did find out what the bacon meant.

Monday 18th January

18:20 I didn’t want to go in. I just stood there staring at those red brick walls feeling greatly about the contradiction of this being both an end and a beginning. The setting sun dipped behind the line of trees to my right and I reluctantly ended my procrastination. One deep breath and I heaved up my bags and staggered towards the great archway and the heart of the school where the depraved and the insane awaited.

The place was oddly deserted, and for a moment I hesitated, considering the unlikely possibility that I had arrived at school a week too early. It was only the prefects who had been summoned tonight but it genuinely appeared like I was utterly alone. The main quad was trimmed and serene and Pissing Pete must have been serviced in the holidays because the spray of water from his sword flew high into the air before crashing back into the pond at his feet. His face looked a good deal shinier too.

I skirted the clipped grass of the quad and strode swiftly towards the house door. It was wide open but I couldn’t detect any sign of life from inside.

‘Hello!’ I shouted and heard my voice echo up the stairs and down into the bogs. There was no reply. I dropped my bags and poked my head into the common room which now boasts a blood red carpet and two new armchairs. On the television Adrian Steed was reading the news but the volume was turned down.

Up the stairs and onto the landing, I hovered outside the head of house’s room.

‘Simon?’ I knocked gently.

There was no response so I continued along the passage to the second year dormitory which was equally deserted. Then onward to the first year dorm where the air was dank and unexpectedly cool.

I reclined on the house bench and surveyed the quad for any signs of movement. The bell tower glimmered pink and silver in the fading light. Nothing stirred. It was truly as if I was the only schoolboy left alive in the world. Just me and ten million desperate schoolgirls. It was a mightily positive thought.

After scoping the bogs, which I am happy to report have been retiled and painted a brilliant white, I tried the handle on the prefects’ room door which, surprisingly, twisted and opened.

‘Get out!’ hissed an icy voice from the gloom inside.

‘Sorry,’ I replied instinctively, and hurriedly closed the door.

Out in the passage the realisation dawned on me that this was 1993 and I was a prefect and well within my rights. I turned the handle again, kicked the door open and entered. All I could see was an unmoving figure seated in an armchair across the room.

‘So what’s the answer, Milton? Are you retarded or did you just forget that you were a prefect?’

‘I’m probably retarded,’ I replied.

The dark figure snorted and I immediately knew who it was.

‘So, 1993, Spuddy … what you say – a bang or a whimper?’

‘A bang,’ I responded, sounding positively inspired.

‘There’s a bottle of vodka on the table to your right,’ he said rather matter of factly. ‘It’s the only liquor that can’t be smelled on your breath.’

There was a glow of light about Rambo’s face, his lips pursed together around a cigarette as he slowly bowed his head to the flame.

‘It’s going to be one hell of a year.’

‘Bring it on,’ I said.

He didn’t reply.

Fifteen minutes later I found a drastically slimmed down Fatty on the house bench staring intently at Pissing Pete. When I asked him how his holiday had been, he turned to me and said, ‘My oath to God, Spuddy, it was like the best ever and I lost like twenty kilograms in six weeks.’

‘Penny?’ I asked. This was a loaded question because only Fatty’s barely legal, but very pretty, thirteen year old girlfriend could have inspired such a dramatic weight crash.

‘It was kinda like a scene from Grease meets Romeo and Juliet, but only set in Port Shepstone,’ he said with wonder in his voice. ‘You know, like summer loving on the beach with two star crossed lovers and all that …’

I considered this for a moment.

‘So who was it this time, Mermaid or Amanda?’

‘Neither,’ I said.

‘Oh well, there’s always more fish in the …’ he faded off as a new idea seemed to strike him. ‘I actually know for a fact that Brenda – you remember Brenda from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, right?’

I nodded.

‘Well, she told Penny on New Year’s Eve that she was still willing to kiss you anytime.’

‘Great,’ I replied without much enthusiasm.

‘And maybe a bit more …’ he added hopefully.

There was a longish pause while I considered the barren wasteland of my love life.

‘Hey, and remember to book your room. It’s first come first served,’ he added.

‘Okay,’ I replied still trying to shake off the dismal vision of having to resort to young Brenda as my girlfriend, and first ever girl to touch my Russian. I think I’d rather become a monk or a Rastafarian or something.

Rambo and Fatty had already booked the rooms upstairs diagonally opposite Simon’s head of house room. Despite Rambo occupying a double room, he made it abundantly clear that should anyone (read me) even think about asking to share with him, he’d kill them (me) slowly with his bare hands. He went on to add that the corpse (mine) would then be incinerated with concentrated lime stolen from the store room at the cricket pavilion.

On the landing halfway up the stairs was another option, although this was a tiny room with barely enough space to stand up straight. Besides, this was Pike’s old matric room and is bound to have terrible karma due to his depraved behaviour and disturbing bullying.

Another flight down and under the stairs itself was the room that was most famously home to Gavin, the weird prefect under the stairs. It’s a thoroughly disturbing space and I didn’t linger before moving on.

The bog room occupied last year by Meany Dlamini is large and spacious but suffers from three obvious problems:

1. Its proximity to the bogs
2. Its proximity to the urinal
3. Its proximity to the house phone

That left the prefab double room outside that attached to the rear end of the first years’ classroom. I immediately liked the look of the long and narrow room which, although outside the house itself, was close enough not to feel out of the action. Three problems immediately presented themselves:

1. The proximity of Viking’s office window offers the maniac a clear view of the door which could be tricky if I have to unexpectedly bring a buxom blonde back to my room for some late night jiggery.
2. The room is attached to the first year prep classroom which will make it noisy unless fear is instilled into the new boys the very moment they arrive. Depending on their general sizes, this could be achievable. The flip side, however, is that Eve’s counsellor’s office is attached to the opposite end of the first year classroom, so with us regularly crossing paths there should be plenty of opportunities to hone my spadework over the coming months.

   (If I did take the room, it would probably be worth my while writing down and memorising a number of classic one-liners that I could use in passing conversation with Eve. Nothing too obvious, but just the kind of stuff that would make me look witty, cool and well worth a shag.)

3. It’s a double room. That could mean I am opening myself up to a possible room mate (Vern, Boggo or Garlic) and definite disaster. Still, there are three decent-ish rooms in the house for the others. After some considerable thought, I decided the double room was a gamble worth taking.

I hurriedly made the bed and unpacked enough clothes from my trunk to make the room look taken. I checked the basin taps which, after spluttering out some chocolate water, seemed to rectify themselves and run true. Thereafter I locked the door and pocketed the key with the confidence of a proud new owner.

Spud Milton has staked his claim! At last, a room of my own.

Tuesday 19th January

07:45 After enjoying a sumptuous breakfast at the prefects’ table, Rambo, Fatty and I dawdled across the quad with our coffee in the general direction of Viking’s office. Simon was waiting for us at the bench.

‘Hey, Simon,’ I said cheerfully. ‘How was your holiday?’

‘Cool,’ he replied without much enthusiasm.

‘What’s this meeting all about?’ asked Rambo, looking uninspired.

‘Flippin’ new boys, what else?’ hissed Simon, rolling his eyes.

Viking was as furious as ever although it was impossible to know what he was so livid about. All I could really glean from his introduction was that the new boys were arriving in two hours’ time and that he had recently had a vivid nightmare about one of them attempting to commit suicide on his watch. When Fatty asked our housemaster whether this had been a bad dream or a premonition, Viking refused to elaborate other than to say that the dying boy was naked. A long silence followed before he cleared his throat and moved on to general protocol. After repeated instructions on what to say to the parents of the new boys as they arrived, he scavenged through his filing cabinet and brought out yet more instructions. We were each given a folder and told to familiarise ourselves closely with its contents.

Before having to read out the entire document together in unison, Viking made it clear that during the first years’ two week period of grace we were to keep interactions with the new boys to the minimum and that Simon was the only contact point should any of them need help or assistance. It all seemed a little odd but then again Viking isn’t exactly the heartland of normal.

Since the document accurately demonstrates my housemaster’s (fragile) state of mind, and is perhaps the most ridiculous set of guidelines ever dished out by a high school teacher, I have decided to stick some of its contents into my diary for safekeeping and future proof that I in fact received a scholarship to the monkey asylum rather than to a top private school as previously advertised.

Meeting the new boys and carrying their trunks to the first year dormitory thankfully went off without a hitch. Although nervous, none of them seemed suicidal. They seemed quite an unassuming bunch apart from the black boy, Ntoko, who was extremely confident on arrival.

While head of house Simon was forced to attend The Glock’s laborious speech about discipline in the theatre, Reverend Bishop’s sprawling feel-the-spirit sermon in the chapel, and an awkward buffet lunch in the quad with the parents and new boys, Fatty, Rambo and I spent the afternoon drinking tea, eating toast with honey, and discussing the finer points of seduction. Despite it being close to thirty degrees outside Rambo poured an entire steel bucket of coal into the fireplace and soon had a raging furnace under way. He took off his shirt and sat before the smouldering coals smoking his cigarettes and tracing the lines of his biceps and triceps with a piece of coal while we continued our discussion.

In the knowledge that the rest of the Crazy Eight would be arriving shortly, I locked my room and stashed the key in my pocket. Boggo has a long history of thievery, blackmail and forced removals.

17:35 Garth Garlic was the first of the rest of the Crazy Eight to arrive. We heard his excited shouting about Malawi from the passage outside the prefects’ room.

‘Rowdy!’ he hollered. ‘Where’s the rest of the Crazy Eight?’ We didn’t hear Rowdy respond but he must have because Garlic immediately began banging on the door of the cop shop and shouting, ‘Hey, guys! Fatty? Spud? You guys in there?’

Nobody replied. The handle twisted and the prefects’ room door flew open. The pink and incredulous face of Garth Garlic appeared.

‘There you all are!’ he cried with delight like we had been involved in a game of good natured hide and seek.

‘We’re in the middle of a prefects’ meeting, Garlic,’ said Rambo sharply while exhaling a large cloud of cigarette smoke into the fire and up the chimney.

‘Cool,’ replied Garlic with an expectant grin like somebody was on the verge of cracking a rip-snorting joke. He closed the door and made his way to the empty armchair to my left. ‘So how was your holiday, guys?’ There was a long pause before Garlic continued. ‘Mine was a top tenner, maybe even a top fiver!’

‘Good,’ muttered Rambo. ‘Now sod off before I roast your face in the fire and eat it.’

Rambo sprang to his feet and made a lunging bid to catch the Malawian but Garlic, who is fast developing a reputation for narrowly escaping imminent pain and humiliation, evaded Rambo’s outstretched hand, leapt over the armchair in which he had been sitting, and bolted from the prefects’ room, his eyes wide with terror and his skin glowing pink.

‘I swear to God,’ growled Rambo once the dust had settled, ‘one day I’m going to roast a piece of Garlic and taste it. No bullshit. I reckon he’ll be absolutely delicious.’ I didn’t quite know how to respond to Rambo’s cannibalism so I nodded in agreement as if eating a piece of Garth Garlic was normal if not downright sensible.

Boggo arrived when we were all at dinner. After carefully examining the available room options, he selected the bog room for its size and the fact that it suited his nickname. He said that he would rather contract cholera from the urinal than have to share with me and sleep with a cork up his bum for an entire year.

Garlic selected the tiny room on the landing which meant that whether he liked it or not, Rain Man would sleep in the room under the stairs.

Vern arrived at 21:00 and immediately began to cause trouble. Firstly, he kept banging on Boggo’s door and shouting, ‘Oi!’ The maniac seemed furious that Boggo wasn’t allowing him in and was hell bent on evicting him. But Boggo was resolute as always and refused to open the door even when Viking came knocking to welcome him back to school. Then some donkey fart suggested that Vern should share the outside room with me. Luckily, I beat the nutcase in the race for the door and locked him out. I sat triumphantly at my desk listening to Vern’s banging and shouting outside, confident that if I stuck to my guns like Boggo I would eventually see the idiot off. Thankfully, Viking didn’t take kindly to the terrible racket going on outside his office window and ordered the Rain Man to cease his terrible din and occupy the room under the stairs.

Vern’s fate was sealed and within minutes Viking (with the help of Simon, JR Ewing, Thinny, Runt and myself) managed to force him into his room.

Strangely, once the cretin was in, he never once tried to come out again.

Wednesday 20th January

06:30 I called the morning roll call at a good lick, giving dissenters and wise guys no chance to undermine my first official duty as a prefect with lame jibes and idiotic sideshows. I even issued a stern rebuking of Darryl (the last remaining) for looking an absolute shambles and threw a nasty glare at Plump Graham for being forty seconds late. The first years seemed genuinely afraid of me which was heartening to see. It must be added that they do look pretty much terrified of everything right now so I probably shouldn’t take too much masculine credit at this stage.

Vern wasn’t at roll call and didn’t open his door when I knocked. Considering Rain Man’s oddball behaviour last night, I thought it wise to inform Simon in case Vern had run away or done something disturbing.

Simon rapped sharply on Vern’s door but there was no reply. I spied through the keyhole and found myself locked onto Vern’s demented eyeball which was peering through the other end.

‘Vern,’ I said in a kindly voice, ‘I just wanted to check that you were all right.’

There was no reply other than the sound of Rain Man muttering to himself and pushing his desk against the door.

‘Quick, attack!’ shouted Simon. He shoulder charged the door and managed to prise it open before Vern had his barricade in place. Vern tried his best to keep the door closed but the collective muscle of myself, Simon and Sidewinder, who was wandering past clad only in a yellow towel, was enough to heave the door open and reveal a wild looking Rain Man dressed in khaki.

‘Grab him!’ ordered Simon and lunged for Vern’s arm. Despite there being nowhere to hide in his spooky little room, Vern nevertheless made a valiant attempt to escape by diving head first into the wall. The bang to the head settled him down and we were able to escort him out of his room, down the passage and into the bright sunshine of the main quad.

‘Come, Vern, it’s time for breakfast,’ I called as normally as possible.

The cretin grinned and followed me rather unsteadily to the dining hall for a breakfast of scrambled egg and sausages which he drenched in tomato sauce and wolfed down without using any of his cutlery.

(DIS) ORIENTATION DAY

Simon, Rambo, Fatty and I led the new boys off for an introductory tour of the school to the sound of loud and obvious sniggering from a tea-drinking Boggo Greenstein on the house bench. Simon led the tour which meant that Rambo and I dawdled at the back, with Fatty falling further behind before calling it quits at the squash courts.

Viking called us in for our second prefects’ meeting of the day and was relieved to hear that none of the new boys had plunged to their deaths on the school tour. His big announcement was that Eggwhite, last year’s mostly ineffectual house prefect returning for post matric, would be back on Friday and that we would have to cover his duties this week. He handed us further lists and instruction documents before sending us on our way with a curt nod.

Back in the prefects’ room, which we have taken to calling the cop shop, we bemoaned our lot over milky tea and cheese sandwiches. Rambo even reckoned that he was thinking of packing it in if Viking didn’t stop with his endless meetings about naked boys committing suicide. I returned to my room to ready myself for tomorrow’s lessons and glanced through the variety of textbooks filled with reams of knowledge and information that I will have to devour, digest and regurgitate in November. I wonder if my brain will have the capacity to take it all in? My matric maths textbook looks particularly nasty with its small unemotional writing and vomit yellow cover. At least I have the space and serenity of my own room to make a decent stab at it.

I bumped into Eve on the way to dinner and I would be denying the truth if I didn’t say that she looked absolutely ravishing in her knee length skirt and high heels. We spoke about Roger the cat’s banishment to Sparerib’s brother’s farm near Komga due to his endless spraying and destructive behaviour around the house over the holidays. She reckons he ripped up all their lounge cushions during Christmas and extensively soiled Sparerib’s thermal underwear drawer while they were at The Glock’s New Year’s Eve party. I nodded sympathetically about the situation and stole a glance at her cleavage as she leant forward to adjust her left heel. Eve seemed rather concerned about the way Vern had taken the news about Roger no longer being at the school and asked me if he was behaving unusually. ‘Vern always behaves unusually,’ I replied, making her laugh and then briefly ruffle my hair. We must have chatted against the wall of the passage for at least fifteen minutes about Roger and Vern and I sensed a growing ease in each other’s company. Overall, it was an excellent conversation and Eve smelled terrific.

21:30 My first lights out duty went rather smoothly, all things considered. The first years even called me sir. I was careful not to open up any meaningful conversations but a small boy with ginger hair and the unfortunate name of Michael Wiggle asked me with a deeply troubled expression on his face if Vern was insane.

‘Definitely,’ I replied and switched out the lights.

The second year dormitory was a little livelier than the first but the Fragile Five immediately obeyed when I ordered them to their beds.

‘Hey, John, can I ask you a question?’ asked Plump Graham, as he tried to squeeze himself into an extremely tight pair of white long-johns. ‘Why is Alan Greenstein charging a toll on the urinal?’

The Fragile Five were adamant that Boggo had charged both Runt and Sidewinder R1.50 each to use the piss trough. I promised the worried second years that I’d look into the problem.

(Surely it’s only a question of time until people begin whispering about the relative sizes of Plump Graham and Fatty, considering Graham’s vast expansion and what Boggo is now calling Fatty’s ‘anorexia-paedophilia’.)

I was mildly dreading the Normal Seven dorm as they were most likely to pull something on me or challenge my authority. As it turned out my fears were unfounded and even the likes of Spike and JR Ewing were polite and obedient when I called them to order. If I didn’t know better I’d say they were up to something.

‘Where’s Runt?’ I asked after discovering his empty bed.

Barryl stepped forward and in an exceedingly deep voice replied, ‘He’s helping Rambo and Viking push Vern back in his room.’ I headed downstairs to where Viking was shouting and Vern was shrieking and clawing at people’s faces because he didn’t want to go back into his room again.

Thursday 21st January

School began properly today and it was the usual grind of boredom that passes for higher education in this place. Handed out were piles of papers detailing various syllabuses, approaching large projects, and dire threats of what cocking up matric will do to the rest of your life. There wasn’t even any comic relief because The Guv hasn’t returned to school. Boggo said he overheard Mr Cartwright telling Norm (I don’t believe in spinners) Wade that The Guv was in hospital for an operation.

I ran down to The Guv’s house after lunch but the place looked deserted and nobody answered when I knocked and yelled. I should have called him in the holidays, if only to say Merry Christmas and to check on how he was doing. Hopefully, it’s nothing serious and only the gout in his drinking arm playing up again.

19:30 During prep I took a stroll across to Boggo’s room to have a little chat about the increasing complaints that I have received concerning his toll charge at the urinal. Boggo reluctantly let me into his bog room which is plastered wall to wall with pictures of beautiful naked women striking sexy poses, mostly under waterfalls. I decided to confront Boggo directly about his controversial new way of raising capital and, unsurprisingly, he pretended to be utterly shocked and outraged, saying that ‘people with agendas’ were already spreading malicious rumours about him.

Boggo flopped down on his bed and appeared to be thoroughly disgusted with life. I allowed some time to pass before saying, ‘I have three boys willing to testify that they saw you charging Runt R1.50 for taking a piss.’

Boggo’s eyes narrowed and his look of disgust was instantly replaced by one of raging defiance.

‘Well, obviously I charged Runt, but then who wouldn’t? He’s the weirdest little creep south of the North Pole.’

‘Still,’ I said in my most reasonable voice, ‘you can’t charge a guy for having a piss. It’s completely dictatorial and borderline insane.’

‘They do it in Europe,’ retorted Boggo with a broad smirk like he had gone some way towards winning the argument.

‘What do they do in Europe?’ echoed a surprisingly loud but mumbled voice from the doorway. We turned to see Garlic standing there in his crimson dressing gown with a buzzing electric toothbrush in his mouth.

‘Shag animals,’ replied Boggo, looking deeply displeased with life once more.

Garlic was astonished by this revelation about Europeans but thankfully couldn’t ask any more questions because his mouth was too full of toothpaste. He raced off to the basins to spit and Boggo took the opportunity to slam and lock his bedroom door.

‘You see, that’s the fundamental problem with life, Milton,’ he said. ‘Too many lurkers.’ Boggo looked wistful as his eyes took in a large poster of a shapely brunette with a python sliding through her naked cleavage.

‘If it’s not Garlic with his questions or Vern with his screaming and banging, then it’s Runt peeping into my room and lingering around with suggestive intent.’

‘But you can’t blacklist boys from using the bogs just because they’re lurkers,’ I argued.

‘On the contrary, they are completely and utterly free to use the bogs for no payment whatsoever,’ stated Boggo with his open arms demonstrating his generosity. ‘It’s just the urinal that falls under my jurisdiction.’

I found myself nodding absent-mindedly as I took in the splendour of a poster of a feisty old granny in leather riding a Harley Davidson. Underneath it was written:

CAN YOU GO THE DISTANCE?

There was an excited knock on the door.

‘Piss off, Garlic!’ shouted Boggo immediately. He hurled a hockey boot which missed the door by some distance and clattered into his bookshelf instead, sending half a shelf of pornography and both of his primary school hockey trophies crashing to the floor. Boggo appeared not to notice his blunder as his focus remained on the door where Garlic was attempting to jimmy the handle with his electric toothbrush. When that failed, the Malawian commenced pounding on the door and shouting questions at Boggo about the Europeans as the shrill ringing of the telephone sounded from the room next door.

‘You see what I have to put up with down here, Spud, my oath to God it’s sheer hell.’

I had to concede that things were a little chaotic when most of the Normal Seven struck up a lewd war cry outside and the house began ringing once again.

‘Chaotic!’ snorted Boggo. ‘Oh, I’d settle for chaotic all right, this is worse than a frikkin’ Bombay fish market. My oath to God it’s chronic. Could easily cost me ten per cent in my exams.’

‘Okay, I can understand Vern, Garlic and Runt getting blacklisted from the urinal,’ I reasoned, attempting to return to the original purpose of my mission, ‘but why Sidewinder?’

‘Hygiene, pure and simple,’ replied Boggo like the matter was out of his hands and beyond his control.

‘Hygiene?’ I repeated, wondering where he might be leading me with this new line of thinking.

‘Well, do the trigonometry, Milton,’ he said. ‘The dude’s dongle points due west, if you get my drift.’ Boggo used a long bony finger to demonstrate the left leaning nature of Sidewinder’s sidewinder. ‘So unless he faces the window at right angles to the urinal when firing off, then he’s definitely going to spray on the wall or the step and contribute dramatically to the aroma problem which I’m sure you’ve picked up around here.’

Boggo sauntered over to his cupboard and gave his armpits two short blasts of deodorant each before continuing. ‘Nothing personal against Sidewinder but, let’s face it, the guy could cause mass devastation on a full tank with a morning glory.’

Once again I found myself nodding away in agreement as the sly Boggo defused my questions with his typical cunning and warped logic. With a friendly pat on the back I found myself out at the urinal and the door of Boggo’s room snapped shut behind me.

‘Which animals do they shag, Spud?’ blurted Garlic with eyes filled with wonder and desperation. ‘Please tell me.’

‘What?’ I asked in confusion.

‘The Europeans!’ trumpeted Garlic.

‘Giraffes,’ I replied, and made a break for it, leaving the sound of hysterical laughter from the Malawian echoing around the bogs.

Friday 22nd January

06:10 Just awoke from a sublime dream involving Eve and a taller version of myself enjoying a romantic picnic with champagne and fine cheeses in a grassy vale beside a lake. Unfortunately, nothing physical happened but it was obvious in the way that Eve ate her cherries that she was being deliberately flirty. I had less than five hours of sleep but felt my most rested in years.

Inspired by my vivid dream, I pretended to be making a full and lengthy inspection of the first year prep classroom after breakfast but despite Eve’s office door being wide open, I didn’t so much as lay eyes on her. No doubt Sparerib has bailed her up at home with boring conversations and unnecessary demands to iron his underpants.

08:20 The Guv still hasn’t returned. Rumours of his operation it seems are true. Reverend Bishop refused to say what was wrong with him but made it sound like it wasn’t all that serious. Not sure why everybody is being so evasive when talking about The Guv?

11:00 The announcement of the trial cricket teams usually indicates what side you’ll make for the coming year and the jostling crowd around the notice board meant that the moment of truth had finally arrived. The whole thing is a diabolical lottery and what with the sudden and unexplained disappearance of The Guv who was meant to coach the 1sts, one would presume that goblin man chose the teams instead. I sensed that my karma was definitely bad with Sparerib after dreaming about romping his wife for three nights in succession. The unhealthy energy in the air reminded me of last year’s fiasco when spinner prejudice sentenced me to three weeks of vermin cricket with the likes of Garlic and Vern. Understandably, I approached the notice board with some hesitancy and began with the 5ths/6ths trial match and moved upwards without breathing. My name wasn’t down in the 3rds/4ths trial match either. Eventually, I could bear the agony no longer and allowed my eyes to scan down the first team for Saturday’s trial. And there it was – J Milton, down to bat at number 8.

I refused to allow myself any emotion until I was back in the safety of my room where I celebrated uncontrollably in fluent gibberish.

Dare I say it and curse myself? For the first time in my life I feel like I’m on a bit of a roll.

18:00 Boggo talked the Crazy Eight into signing up for the senior social at St Mary’s Convent next Friday night. I initially gave it the thumbs down but since momentum is on my side I thought it could be a strategically clever move, and besides Boggo reckons convent girls are notoriously filthy between the sheets.

20:30 Rumours of a midnight Fragile Five nightswim have been circulating. Fatty and Rambo have elected to keep guard and attempt to catch them in the act.

Saturday 23rd January

05:45 Fatty shook me awake and hauled me out of bed because he said major shit was about to hit the fan. Over a cup of tea and a buttermilk rusk he excitedly filled me in on the dramatic events of last night.

The Fragile Five’s (FF) nightswimming effort, which appears to have been planned by Plump Graham and Meg Ryan’s Son, deteriorated rather dramatically upon return from the dam. The FF discovered the chapel window, through which they had just escaped, was locked from the outside by means of Rambo’s unbreakable Japanese combination lock. True to form the FF panicked and galloped down the gallery stairwell only to find all the lower doors bolted from the outside. In desperation, the second years sprinted back up the stairs and into the bell tower where they chanced upon a large figure shrouded in a white sheet (Fatty) who had been instructed by Rambo to make like Macarthur on the bell ringer’s platform. The FF took one look at the enormous apparition looming over them, screamed like a bunch of small girls, and fled. Poor Rowdy exploded into hysterical sobs as they careened back down the steps to the gallery and had another yank at the chapel window which stubbornly refused to budge thanks to Rambo and the Japanese.

Then Rambo fired up his reign of supernatural terror. It began with playing one long and creepy note on the organ and ended with him screaming, ‘I’m gonna eat you!’ and leaping off the pulpit with his arms outstretched onto a huge pile of cushions set out below. The overall effect of Reverend Bishop’s ceremonial robes was that Rambo apparently looked like some terrible flying Satanic creature. The shattered FF gave up on escape and spent the rest of the night huddled together for safety in the gallery of the chapel.

06:00 A straight-faced Simon phoned Viking and alerted him to the fact that all of the second years had gone missing in the night. Our housemaster arrived at 6:07 half-dressed and already in an immense rage. He immediately sent the prefects out on a search of the house and surrounds for the missing boys. With utter fury he shouted, ‘By fuckery, if these little shit-stirrers are found to be bunking out I’ll meat cleaver them to death!’

It didn’t take long for Rambo to make the ‘discovery’ and Viking was led to where a pile of sleeping bodies lay huddled together in the chapel gallery.

‘What in God’s name is the meaning of all this?’ he roared after galloping up the steps.

‘We weren’t bunking out, sir,’ said Plump Graham in a quivery voice. ‘We just wanted to make sure that we were early for chapel, sir.’

Three major problems with this feeble-minded excuse immediately presented themselves:

1. Nobody arrives early for chapel
2. There are no chapel services on Saturdays
3. Two of the Fragile Five were dressed in speedos and the others only in their underpants

17:00 My winning momentum has stalled. I made a duck in our batting innings in the trial match against the 2nds, although it must be said that Yobbo Skelton took a blinding catch in the gully to see me marching back to the pavilion without troubling the scorers. Even worse, I didn’t even have a chance to bowl because as I was measuring my run-up for my first over, a cloud burst and within ten minutes the field was waterlogged. Sparerib made us hang around for an hour and a half of watching the rain fall before he finally called the game off. Will I still be in the 1st team when the side is announced on Friday? That will be the true test of whether momentum is still going my way or if the worm of happiness has turned south and sour.

20:00 I opted against watching the house movie (Dangerous Liaisons) despite it starring the beautiful Michelle Pfeiffer and the disturbing John Malkovich. I’m very close to finishing Bonfire of the Vanities so I made for the cop shop hoping to find a quiet spot on a comfy armchair to read. Instead I found Fatty eating a chip bunny and Rambo smoking at the fire grate. It appeared as if they were having a debate about the fate of the Fragile Five.

‘Spuddy, you’re never going to guess what happened,’ gabbled Fatty excitedly.

‘Viking wants to lash them eighteen strokes each,’ interrupted Rambo on a smoky exhale before chortling to himself and taking another deep drag. I wasn’t really sure if beating somebody eighteen strokes was even legal, let alone good form.

‘Viking scoured the school rules this afternoon and found nothing limiting the number of strokes a boy may be caned,’ added Fatty as he licked his fingers and mopped up the remaining crumbs on his plate.

According to the residents of the cop shop, Viking has accused the Fragile Five of a multitude of crimes, including truancy, nightswimming, deviancy, vandalism, bunking-out, bunking-in, crass deception, blasphemy, soiling hymnbooks, and being underdressed in the chapel within thirty hours of the commencement of a service. This all added up to eighteen strokes each to be dished out at 20:00 tomorrow evening in Viking’s office.

‘One of them could definitely die,’ said Rambo, looking rather pleased about developments.

‘Eighteen strokes is pushing the line of barbarism even by apartheid standards,’ cautioned Fatty.

‘Perhaps one of them will commit suicide,’ ventured Rambo in a low voice. ‘Now that would be deeply ironic.’ I left Fatty and Rambo to their disturbing conversations about death and headed to my room with a cup of tea. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of drawing close to the end of a great book and Bonfire of the Vanities was screaming for attention.

Despite not having any pictures or posters up yet, I really do like the feeling of being alone in my long skinny room. School is far more enjoyable when you have the right place to hide from it.

Sunday 24th January

How fantastic to be in matric and finally shot of the laborious institution of free bounds. I always wondered if sending the majority of the school off the premises on a Sunday afternoon ever did any good. Now I see that it most definitely does. Matrics, post matrics and staff get to have the run of the place and for three short hours the school is a place you would never want to leave.

After seeing all the boys off from the house bench, Rambo and Boggo took on Fatty and me in a three-set marathon tennis match. Rambo continued his one man rebellion against the school rules despite being a prefect. His large juice bottle was filled with strong vodka, ice and Oros, which he forced us to taste before knocking up. We lost in the third set tie-breaker when Boggo’s relentless goading of Fatty’s anorexia-paedophilia finally took its toll as my partner lost his temper and smashed a forehand into the net and the next over the back fence. He then served two double faults to end the match and shouted, ‘Shot a lot, Boggo, for screwing up a great tennis match!’ and stormed back to the house without shaking anyone’s hand.

Weirdly, Rambo’s tennis improved with every cup of ‘jungle juice’ he drank, although his voice was slurring terribly when he called out the score in the final set.

17:00 Roll Call

I knew something was wrong the moment I noticed Plump Graham’s expression.

‘Where are Rowdy and Stutterheim?’ I repeated, this time in a far sterner voice. Whispering and murmurs of interest flared up among the other boys, so I ordered the three remaining members of the Fragile Five to see me afterwards in the cop shop and continued with the roll call.