By John van de Ruit

PENGUIN BOOKS

Table of Contents

1992 NEW YEAR’S DAY

Acknowledgements

Like much in this world, writing a book is a bizarre business. The dichotomy of experiencing life as a creative wellspring and simultaneously hiding from its demands and realities creates a schizophrenic impulse to both devour and disappear. I would like to thank my great friends and family for not disowning me over the past sixteen months, and especially Julia, who has walked this journey with me every step of the way. Her influence is unseen, yet I doubt Learning to Fly would be what it is without her love, clever brain and the bountiful joy she brings to my life.

Alison Lowry – I cannot thank you enough for your inspiration, guidance and calming influence. Our Midlands imbizos cemented the building blocks for what was to follow, and your faith and brilliance cajoled me through the difficult months of editing and second guessing. It is unique for a writer to find an editor (and boss) whom he can trust implicitly to share his vision. You are the true mother of this series and what The Guv might call a delinquent visionary. Thanks, also, to the entire crew at Penguin Books who take my mad ramblings, turn them into beautiful books and ensure that they fly off the shelves. I feel like I have an army behind me and the success of Spud is as much yours, as it is mine. Special thanks to Tracey McDonald for thinking big, Janine (Leadfoot) Daniel for breaking the speed limit, and Claire Heckrath for her artistic gems.

Finally I want to thank you, the reader, for taking this journey with me. May these pages bring you joy and laughter and an insight into a world that is both familiar and foreign. After all, that is what you all have gifted me.

1992

NEW YEAR’S DAY

TAKING STOCK

PHYSICAL

Freakishly underdeveloped with no real biceps, triceps, pecs, calves, six pack etc … etc … The realisation has dawned on me that I’m less than two years away from finishing my school career and yet I still don’t look a day over eleven. Despite months of spectacular knackjumping and other verbal pyrotechnics, my voice has hardly dropped below the level of a masculine woman. I had my first shave on New Year’s Eve which didn’t seem to make any difference, except for the nasty cut on my neck that seeped blood all night and then miraculously stopped on the gong of New Year. This was quite possibly some sort of signal from above that 1992 will offer up greater things than 1991 – or at least be a little less bloody.

EMOTIONAL

After two years of numerous disasters, countless embarrassing situations, and endless turmoil, I find myself in a desperately fragile state of mind. My ‘relationships’ are a constant cause for stress and I’ve narrowed the problem down to the simple but unavoidable fact that I’m utterly terrified of women, particularly the ones who like me. My parents are often insane, my friends are mostly delinquents or cretins (or both), and since I have no siblings, I have to unload all my worries on Blacky. This is grossly unfair on an animal that thinks licking his privates in public is generally good form. There’s also glaring evidence of inbreeding in my father’s bloodline, which could account for my embarrassingly late physical development. Thanks to my great-great-grandfather repeatedly bonking my great-great-aunt, my goolies are now more famous than I am.

MENTAL

Being surrounded by madness most of the time has left me edgy and disturbed. I think about death at least once a week and frequently have a twitchy left eyebrow, which Mom says is definitely stress related. I do still have my scholarship, although the letter from the school bursar let it be known that the school isn’t satisfied with what I have achieved thus far.

SPIRITUAL

I’m fairly sure God exists, although He hasn’t exactly come storming through on any of the urgent prayers that I’ve sent His way. I have a feeling this is because He’s either overworked, punishing me for dabbling in the occult with Fatty, or he’s reading my mind when I think of Amanda or Julia Roberts. I’ve also spent many unsuccessful hours trying to work out the meaning of life.

FAMILY

Mom is in a permanently bad mood, which Dad puts down to menopause. Wombat is senile, deranged and suspicious of her own family, and it took my father nearly a week to convince a team of top psychiatrists in the nuthouse that he wasn’t insane. Dad called the whole nuthouse debacle at the end of last term a simple misunderstanding, and blamed God and the station wagon for his woes. If you ask me, any person who announces, ‘I’ve had a breakdown!’ outside an asylum deserves to have electrodes strapped to his head for a week. I also overheard Mom telling Marge that Dad spent four of the days in the asylum wearing a straightjacket and a nappy! Hardly the sign of a sane man …

GIRLS

Mermaid

Mermaid and I have decided that we will wait until after school before we have a real relationship. In truth Mermaid decided this on our weekend away at Sodwana Bay with her parents, and because my bottom lip started quivering I immediately agreed. Inside I was screaming No No No! but unfortunately my traitorous lips were stupidly saying ‘Okay’ over and over. Later on the trampoline I asked her if we could start over again. She gave me a hug and said I was her best friend. My lips then said ‘Definitely’. And that was that.

Further bad news is that the Mermaid has suddenly become religious and now reckons she’s saving herself for marriage. When I asked her when she would like to get married she answered, ‘When I’m twenty-nine.’ On the plus side, we did share a passionate goodbye kiss up against her fridge, which was only interrupted when Brutus (Mermaid’s boxer) got his head stuck in the rubbish bin and then had a panic attack and pissed himself.

Amanda

Mom didn’t let me go away with Amanda and her friends in the holidays because she said there was no adult supervision and that it would encourage my ‘drinking problem’. Mom also called Amanda a private school hussy, hell-bent on driving me to suicide. When I broke the bad news to Amanda, she called me a coward and then said, ‘Sorry, I forgot you were only fifteen and needed Mommy’s permission.’

I haven’t spoken to her since.

Christine

Christine invited me to her New Year’s Eve party at Salt Rock but I bravely told her I had plans. (Dismal braai with Mom, Dad, Wombat, Uncle Aubrey, Aunt Peggy and Blacky.) She then told me that she wasn’t giving up and kissed the phone three times before saying goodbye.

FIVE REMINDERS OF WHY I SHOULD NEVER BE WITH CHRISTINE:

Unfortunately, the list of girls in my life remains identical to that of two years ago. This semi-arid love-life situation is becoming serious and requires urgent and immediate attention. The only problem is that I’m still in love with one of them, obsessed with the other, and lately I have had pleasurable dreams about the third.

So here I sit, at my desk in my little room, looking back over the worst holiday in living memory. The Mermaid has sort of dumped me again and I’m wondering if life is really just a series of random experiences that deceives you into thinking that you’re actually serving some sort of purpose, when actually you are no more important than a mosquito in the greater sewerage works of life?

I now understand why Vincent van Gogh cut his ear off.

Monday 20th January

The atmosphere in the green Renault station wagon was at best gloomy and at worst murderous. Just before leaving home, Mom caught Dad on his stepladder peeping over the fence as our new neighbour was taking her afternoon swim. Mom accused Dad of being perverse and blamed Frank for putting funny ideas into his head. Our new neighbour goes by the name of Amber and because of her being blonde, thin and divorced, Mom has taken an instant dislike to her. Dad pleaded that he was only checking the alignment of the hedge and not being a peeping tom. Mom hasn’t spoken to him since, besides barking orders and complaining about finding a tick in the bed.

Further bad news was that the windscreen wipers stopped working soon after driving into a huge electrical storm near Cato Ridge. Dad was livid, and kept lunging out of the window with his jersey to furiously wipe at the windscreen to improve his visibility. He then set off on a long tirade about Renault being infiltrated by commies and said that the French were spending too much time bonking and not enough time at work. Mom snorted loudly to herself but didn’t say anything else. I slipped on my Walkman and allowed David Bowie to take me back to school instead.

19:15   I dragged my trunk up the final stretch of Pilgrim’s Walk towards the grand old red brick buildings accompanied by the loud chorus of frogs and crickets celebrating the rain. I felt twitchy and nauseous and my trunk was heavier than I can ever remember. A thick mist had descended over the school, muffling all the sounds and the hesitant trickle of Pissing Pete standing alone and miserable in the school fountain. Once in the quad I gazed up at the second storey of the house where all the dormitory lights were blazing neon and in each window frame there was a buzz of movement. I looked along towards the third year dormitory at the far end of the building. In the first window I could see a hand repetitively bouncing a ball on a cricket bat, the second window was closed and the third revealed the outline of a very large boy eating something greedily out of an ice cream tub.

Fatty must have seen me approaching because there was a loud bleat, and then the strident voice of Boggo shouting, ‘Hey, okes, here comes the resident house lesbian!’ There was a chorus of laughter followed by more bleating and a few wolf whistles. I pretended not to hear the mockery and heaved my trunk through the house door. Vern came galloping down like he was running away from a fire and screeched to a halt in front of my trunk at the foot of the stairs. ‘Hi, Vern,’ I said. Rain Man saluted with a flourish and shouted, ‘Spud!’ before picking up the handle on the other side of my army trunk. We carried my trunk up the stairs in complete silence and then opened the door to my new home … and a new member of the Crazy Eight.

And there he sat, perched like a goblin on the end of his trunk, wolfing down a bar of chocolate. It soon dawned on me that everybody was munching a bar of chocolate and staring at me like I was the stranger in the dorm. The new boy jumped up and marched towards me holding out his hand. It was pleasing to see that he was a good few inches shorter than me.

I didn’t immediately say anything because I was distracted by how pink his face was and realised that the short curly hair on his scalp was glowing like an orb in the neon light. It was so white that it looked like he had been dragged on his head across a halfway line.

‘Hello,’ he said with a goofy grin. ‘You must be Spud Milton.’

‘Hi,’ I stammered.

‘I thought so!’ he shouted in a high-pitched voice.

The new boy looked thrilled that he knew who I was before I even had a chance to introduce myself.

‘My name is Garth Garlic,’ he said, pumping my palm with a vigorous handshake. I immediately sensed that this must be a devious Crazy Eight set-up and that I was about to embarrass myself, so I played things cool and said nothing.

‘I come from Malawi,’ Garlic continued. His eyes then widened into blue circular pools and he asked, ‘You ever been to Malawi?’

I shook my head.

Garlic looked heartbroken and his big eyes narrowed again. ‘You would love it,’ he continued. ‘Lake Malawi is the most beautiful place in the world and they don’t mind if you drink beer there under age.’

Then he said, ‘Gee, it’s awesome to meet you, Spud Milton. I’m feeling really proud to be a member of the Secret Seven!’

There was a shocked silence around the dorm before Fatty stepped in. With one arm around Garlic’s shoulders and eyes that were gleaming with delight, he opened a mouth full of chewed chocolate and said, ‘That’s the Crazy Eight, buddy – you probably don’t want to make that kind of mistake again …’ He then gave me a wink and announced, ‘His old man’s the MD of Nestlé Malawi.’ Fatty then swallowed greedily before saying, ‘The oke’s class.’ With that he patted the beaming Garlic on the back and returned to his cubicle where a stack of Nestlé products waited for him slap bang in the centre of his bed.

Boggo was quite obviously sulking. Apparently Rambo had arrived early and immediately welcomed Garlic to the dormitory without discussing the matter with anyone else. Boggo and Fatty were appalled that a stranger could be installed as a fully fledged member of the Crazy Eight without passing a series of worthiness tests that ranged from burping on demand to a graphic description of the females in his family tree. When Boggo complained, Rambo accused Fatty and Boggo of behaving like twelve-year-olds and said the whole Crazy Eight thing was childish and embarrassing.

Unfortunately for Boggo, that was the moment when Fatty discovered that Garlic’s dad was the boss of Nestlé Malawi and immediately switched sides before turning viciously on his former comrade and best friend. Boggo clearly wasn’t impressed with the way everything had gone, because he spent the rest of the evening scowling into the mirror and exploding his numerous zits into a white tissue.

Rambo is also behaving bizarrely. He hardly said anything the entire evening and is acting like we’re all complete strangers.

I watched Rain Man pull out his notebook and sketch a very lifelike picture of Garlic’s face. He furiously wrote GARLIC underneath the picture, and then snapped his notebook shut and slid it back under his mattress. He then crouched low on his bed and watched Garlic for the entire evening through the bars of his towel rail.

CRAZY EIGHT HOLIDAY SCORECARD

Garlic has verbal diarrhoea – after crapping on about Lake Malawi for over an hour, Boggo snapped at him and told him if he wanted to be a part of the Crazy Eight then he had to talk far less and preferably not at all. Garlic’s face flushed and tears sprang to his eyes. He then said, ‘Sorry, guys, I know I talk too much, it’s like I have a loose wire between my head and my brain sometimes and I just like say things that I’m thinking, but that I don’t really like fully mean. You know what I mean?’

There was a pause and then everybody burst into laughter. Garlic was thrilled and laughed along raucously despite being the butt of the joke. Fatty thumped Garlic on the back and said, ‘What a guy!’ He then helped himself to another chocolate from Garlic’s locker and added it to his pile.

Garlic finished laughing and said, ‘Gee, I’m glad I brought those choccies. Dad said they could come in useful if I wanted to buy a few friends …’

We all laughed again and Garlic once again roared along with us.

It feels weird to be back at school, in a new dormitory, and to have a stranger among us. The good news is that I have my own cubicle this year; the bad news is that I’m sandwiched between Vern and Fatty.

Lay awake listening to Fatty snoring and Vern muttering to himself in his sleep. I waited for the night train to charge by but it never did.

I dreamt that Mad Dog derailed the night train from Johannesburg with his catapult. I then woke up and couldn’t sleep for hours. I lay in bed thinking about how different the dormitory feels.

I miss the Mad Dog.

Tuesday 21st January

6:30   Roll Call

Norman Whiteside read out the names at the first roll call of the year. For this reason, and because he looked overly self-important, I’m backing he’s our new head of house. Boggo agreed and said, ‘The class of 1992 aren’t exactly top of the gene pool.’ He then downed his tea and strode off across the quad shaking his head and looking disgusted with life.

Garlic and Barryl were nearly declared missing after spending roll call in the bogs. Apparently, Garlic bailed Barryl up with more talk of Lake Malawi. The shaken Barryl said it was impossible to get away from the prattling maniac, and that Garlic also looked a bit like the tokoloshe. Whiteside made a great show of giving the two a severe rebuking and a final warning. He droned on for ages about people taking liberties and disregarding school traditions. His speech attracted quite a crowd because many boys thought he was making an official announcement.

Garlic was greatly upset that he had implicated Barryl and pleaded, ‘It wasn’t this gentleman’s fault. I was talking about Lake Malawi!’ A collective groan sounded around the bogs and the crowd began to disperse. Looks like word has already spread about the great peril of Lake Malawi.

To add salt to the wounds, Vern gave both Barryl and Garlic a written warning for Bad Form in the Bogs and Surrounds. Garlic obviously didn’t know what was cracking because he said, ‘Hey, shot!’ and happily stashed the blue chit in the pocket of his crimson dressing gown.

Spike has grown. In fact he looks more and more like his vermin older brother by the day. Unfortunately, he now seems to be at least a head taller than me and to make matters worse he shoulder-charged me as I passed him in the passage near the piss trough. He claimed it was an accident but didn’t apologise.

The matrics are all walking around barking orders at people and looking prefectish. Tonight Viking will announce this year’s head of house and the 1992 prefects.

16:45   Garlic covered his entire body in Vaseline after his afternoon shower. He then ambled around the dormitory chatting to people about Lake Malawi while stark naked and glistening. Vern thought this was hilarious, squawked with laughter and pointed at Garlic’s groin. Garlic then asked Vern if he was retarded. Vern thought this was equally hilarious and cackled away to himself before pointing at Garlic’s nuts again and shouting, ‘Spud!’ Garlic looked a little shocked and backed away to his cubicle where he hurriedly got into his clothes and scurried out the dormitory.

20:00   House Meeting

Viking called the first house gathering a ‘Meet and Greet’ although it would be more accurately described as a ‘Clout and Shout’. Spike farted and tried to pretend it was his chair squeaking on the floor. Tough break for him was that it stank and the entire house meeting had to be adjourned for ten minutes while the Normal Seven were ordered to fan the room with cushions and spray their deodorant. Viking conducted his first thrashing as housemaster and caned Spike with two very meaty strokes. Eventually order was restored and Runt was allowed to continue with his Bible reading.

Viking’s introduction was conducted at the general volume of a shout. The poor first years huddled together on the floor at his feet looking genuinely terrified. I remember those days when I kept my eyes glued to the floor, cringing from everything.

‘This house,’ Viking declared, ‘is a complete and utter disgrace!’ He then continued with, ‘And most of you lot wouldn’t cut it in any half-baked platoon!’ I felt an elbow in my ribs before Vern’s extremely loud whisper of, ‘Half-baked Spudoon …’ His crazy sniggering was brought to a halt by Viking who boomed, ‘You clearly have something to share with the house, Blackadder?’ Vern blushed and shook his head about seven times. He then realised that everyone was watching him so he said, ‘Spud!’ There was a long pause. Clearly Vern had stumped yet another figure of authority with his rambling nonsense. Viking eventually said, ‘Yes well … um yes indeed … thank you for sharing that with us, Blackadder,’ before cranking up the volume with, ‘Now I am going to instil peace and respect in this house even if there must be bloodshed!’

After this heart-warming welcome, Viking announced his 1992 prefects:

There was uproar in the common room after the prefects were announced. The fact that Pike was coming back for post matric was thoroughly gutting. That he’s now a prefect is a catastrophe! Viking must be insane if he thinks that Pike could in any way be a good prefect? Thankfully the swine isn’t back at school yet so we didn’t have to endure the look on his smug face and his taunting threats.

Viking congratulated the new prefects with shouted congratulations and wild slaps on the back. He then said to them, ‘My office – now!’ Rambo turned to the rest of the Crazy Eight and said, ‘My cubicle – now!’

House Meeting adjourned.

Upstairs Rambo ordered the windows and door shut. Fatty tried to light up incense and candles but Rambo told him to grow up and look sharp. Then Boggo, who had sauntered into the dormitory with his hands casually fondling his pockets said, ‘Oh, so now suddenly we’re calling Crazy Eight meetings again.’

‘All right, we’ve got a serious problem,’ said Rambo, completely ignoring Boggo’s taunt.

‘This place is insane,’ added Simon as he furiously bit his nails.

‘Talk about scaling an oke’s nuts from out of his jocks,’ agreed Fatty solemnly.

Vern shouted, ‘Oi!’ to let us know that he wasn’t happy either.

Rambo waited for complete silence before continuing, ‘Right, now listen up. We’ve got to box clever. We can’t have a repeat of last year.’ We all nodded back in agreement. ‘We can never get bust, never! In fact we can’t put a single foot wrong. With Viking and Pike sniffing around like detectives we’re gonna have to keep our noses clean – and I mean Omo clean …’ We all nodded solemnly again, apart from Garlic, who chuckled loudly and thought everything was great fun – a clear indication that he’s never encountered a human being as dire as Pike before.

‘We can’t just carry on like we’re a law unto ourselves,’ continued Rambo, now looking more in control. ‘It’s a dead end street and it’s obvious that something suspicious is going on here.’

I wasn’t too sure what Rambo was talking about but if it meant an end to suicidal crazy missions then I’m all for it.

‘Oh, and another thing,’ said Rambo. ‘I’m doing away with democracy. There are members of this group who don’t deserve the vote, have no judgement, and are clinically insane. That’s the reason the shit hit the fan last year.’ Vern stroked Roger forcefully and looked around deviously like he was expecting something to happen. Nothing happened.

Rambo cleared his throat and glared at each of us in turn before saying, ‘So that is why I am taking over full control of the dormitory.’

There was another long and awkward silence. Boggo looked like he was sucking on a lemon. Fatty eventually summoned up the courage to speak, albeit in his whiny voice. ‘So what happens if we don’t want to do what you want us to do?’ Rambo stared at Fatty for a few seconds before grinning and saying, ‘Let’s double-cross that bridge if we get to it.’ Fatty grinned back like an idiot and said nothing further.

‘Right,’ said Rambo clapping his hands together. ‘Let’s go meet the new boys!’ His march to the door was stopped by Simon who had clearly had enough of Rambo Stalin’s orders. ‘Okay, you’ve told us we are going to stick to the rules and stay out of trouble this year. Then in the same breath you order us to break the rules of the house.’ Boggo snorted loudly and shouted, ‘Hello – contradiction?’ Nobody moved. Rambo stared, but still nobody moved.

It was a classic Crazy Eight stand-off.

‘There’s no contradiction, Boggo,’ said Rambo in an unnervingly calm voice. ‘Yes, it’s breaking the rules to touch a first year before their two weeks’ grace is up. But there’s nothing in the rules about a little meet and greet …’

Simon shook his head and said, ‘If the prefects bust us in that dormitory they won’t ask questions.’

Rambo grinned, ‘They can’t bust us, you piss brain, because they’re all in a prefects’ meeting in Viking’s office. Trust me, it’s now or never.’

We reluctantly followed our leader along the passage and watched him throw open the door to the second years’ dormitory. Our arrival was met with a horrified silence …

THE NORMAL SEVEN

The Normal Seven were appalled to see the Crazy Eight. In fact half of them dived onto their beds and desperately tried to hide, while Darryl (the last remaining) made a hilarious attempt at disappearing into his trunk. Rambo ordered them all to sit on their lockers. All obeyed except one: Spike made a big show of lying on his bed and opening up a newspaper. Rambo once again demanded that Spike sit on his locker. Spike ignored him. Rambo strode up to Spike’s cubicle and stood over him looking like he was on the verge of violence. I noticed the hands holding the newspaper were becoming a little unsteady.

‘My brother’s a prefect, in case you haven’t heard,’ said Spike, trying to appear nonchalant. ‘You guys so much as touch me, touch any of us …’ He faded off in a strident voice and waited for Rambo to say something.

Rambo said nothing and instead softly plucked the newspaper out of Spike’s hands and began reading it. Spike jerked his hand away in fear of the sudden movement, and there were a few snorts and sniggers from the Crazy Eight.

After about a minute of reading the newspaper Rambo finally spoke. ‘Tell me, Spike, why are you reading a newspaper from November last year?’ Spike didn’t answer and there were a few more sniggers rippling around the dormitory.

‘Is it because you’re woefully behind the times? Or is it because you get turned on by this picture of Margaret Thatcher?’ Rambo flashed us the picture of Margaret Thatcher dressed in green and looking horsey. The sniggers now turned into loud cackling laughter.

‘Or is it because you wanted to try and look cool in front of your mates instead of lying there with your legs open like the dipshit you really are?’

The laughter died away and Rambo turned and made his way towards the first year dormitory. Boggo snapped up the old newspaper, took a brief look at the picture of Margaret Thatcher and then stashed it into the back of his pants before following Rambo.

‘Piss off, you wanker.’

It took a few moments for us to realise that the insult had been uttered by Spike, and that his intended target was Rambo. For the second time in minutes Rambo had been challenged on his way out of a dormitory door. This time he stopped and swung around with his jaw clenched and his dark eyes burning.

‘I’m sorry, what did you say, Spike?’ replied Rambo in his brand new soft and terrifying voice.

Spike stood up and repeated, ‘I said, piss off, you wanker!’

Rambo marched up to him and everybody backed away a few paces. He stopped his march centimetres from Spike’s face.

‘Listen, Spike, what you’ve just said is insubordination to a senior. You ever speak to me, or any of my boys like that again, I’ll go straight to Viking. Am I understood?’

Spike nodded and suddenly looked on the verge of tears. I even found myself feeling a bit sorry for the idiot. We left again. It was a relief to exit the second years’ dormitory because Runt was staring at me and making me feel self-conscious.

THE NEW BOYS

When we arrived in the first years’ dormitory they all dropped what they were doing and stood to attention at the foot of their beds like they had been drilled all afternoon by an army sergeant. Unfortunately, Vern strode forward and saluted vigorously at the new boys. Some of them saluted back while the rest stared back at Vern in terrified confusion. Vern held his rigid salute for about thirty seconds while beadily eyeing out the new recruits. When he was satisfied that he had sized them all up, he dropped his right arm, sniffed loudly, and returned to his place in the line.

Garlic looked a little confused by the military developments and asked Fatty, ‘Why are these boys saluting us?’ Fatty glanced around suspiciously and whispered, ‘This dorm is haunted, Garlic. There can be no explanation for the shit that goes down here.’ Garlic looked around nervously and asked, ‘Voodoo shit or like weird shit?’ Fatty closed his eyes dramatically and inhaled through loud nostrils as if sniffing the air for the supernatural. Then he said, ‘All kinds of shit.’ Garlic’s eyes widened like saucers as he nodded slowly to himself and said, ‘Same at Lake Malawi.’

Thankfully, Rambo interrupted.

‘Good evening, gentlemen. We are the third years and I’m Rambo. We just wanted to welcome you all to the house. And if there’s anything, or anyone … that troubles you, come speak to me first.’

No violence, no bloodshed, nothing. Rambo wouldn’t even let Fatty examine anyone’s tuck or allow Boggo to interrogate the new boys about their moms and sisters. The first years, I’m happy to report, are all smaller than me and at least three of them are still spuds. In fact I had the weird sensation of feeling my body growing taller while we were standing proudly in front of them.

When new head of house Norman Whiteside came storming into our dormitory to turn the lights out, we were already lying silently in our beds. He looked dreadfully disappointed and didn’t even bother to say goodnight before flicking off the lights and slamming the dormitory door.

These are strange days indeed.

Wednesday 22nd January

The rising siren is sheer horror. Mrs Bishop shat on me for falling asleep during Maths dawn patrol and said I was letting my parents, the school and myself down. I felt terrible and did my best to look lively but couldn’t stop myself from daydreaming about falling asleep in my own bed at home.

11:30   There was a buzz of excitement in our English classroom as we waited for The Guv to make his entrance. Eventually, there was a lot of shouting and banging outside the door. The Guv came bursting in as if he expected to see an empty classroom and stopped dead in his tracks before looking heavenward and asking, ‘And this is the best they could come up with?’ He slammed down a large pile of books on his huge oak desk, flung his leather briefcase into the empty fireplace, and collapsed into his chair exhausted. He then cleaned his spectacles with a white handkerchief before replacing them on his head and glaring at us again. ‘Good God,’ he said, ‘it’s worse than I thought.’

His eyes fell upon Garlic in the front row. Garlic’s face reddened, his eyes swelled and he broke into a great goofy smile. The Guv studied the new man in silence before lighting his pipe. He blew out a huge puff of smoke and continued to examine Garlic like he was an unusual species. Eventually, Garlic could take it no longer and blurted out, ‘I’m Garth Garlic, sir. I come from Malawi. You ever been to Malawi, sir?’

The Guv replied in a deep and droning voice, ‘Young man, I wouldn’t go to Malawi if the rest of the world were ablaze! And I would prefer, Mr Garlic, if you would refer to your hallowed bastion of heathen horror as Nyasaland within the strict confines of my classroom.’

‘But, sir,’ stammered Garlic, ‘Malawi is a beautiful place – and it changed from Nyasaland nearly thirty years ago …’

The Guv thumped his fist down on his wooden desk and cried, ‘Nyasaland may be thirty, but I’m a hundred and eight and this classroom is my empire!’

The Guv sighed deeply, pulled out his handkerchief, and mopped his brow. He then analysed his handkerchief for some time before saying, ‘Who could have predicted that so much mischief could come from such an insignificant little snotrag …’ He looked at us with eyes burning with excitement and intensity. ‘Gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘reach into your bags and unsheath your Othellos.’ Once we had taken out our books he peered at us again as if we were about to embark on some mysterious and dangerous journey and said, ‘Now, gentlemen, reach into yourselves and unsheath your minds …’

I returned to the dormitory after lunch to find a massive golf putting competition under way. Simon and Rambo were taking on Fatty and Boggo in an ill-spirited match and, judging by all the sneering and goading, Fatty and Boggo had fallen woefully behind. This wasn’t that surprising since Boggo has no hand-eye coordination whatsoever and Fatty was having some trouble squeezing in between the lockers and was often forced to putt left handed with the back of his putter. Garth Garlic was jumping up and down with excitement and chanting the score at regular intervals, which only further enraged Boggo.

Boggo and Fatty eventually called the match off because according to them, ‘People were cheating.’ They didn’t say which people or how they were meant to be cheating. Everyone then left to practise hitting golf shots on the field.

I asked Simon what the sudden golf craze was all about. He glared at me like I was an idiot and said, ‘Because the father and son golf day is only six weeks away and this year it’s at Victoria Country Club. You’d better start grooving your swing, Spud.’

This is a huge worry. It seems like this golf day is quite a major event – in fact every senior is expected to play and play well. I’ve never played golf before and neither has Dad, although he did use a three wood to kill a boomslang a few years back. (It turned out the boomslang had already been killed by the gardener, but Dad obviously didn’t know this at the time.)

20:30   Narrowly avoided Garlic talking about Lake Malawi again. This time the victims were a couple of frightened first years whom he had unwittingly cornered at the far end of the common room. When I realised what was happening, I pretended to be looking for somebody and immediately raced out of the room, tapping urgently away at my watch. Garlic seemed to be swinging his arms backwards and forwards like he was trout fishing or perhaps whipping a servant. The first years watched him in silence with eyes of fear and uncertainty.

All the first years look identical. They stand out because they are small and foreign in familiar surroundings. I’ve seen three of them crying already. (Although it could have been the same guy crying three times.) Either way it’s a bumpy ride for the newbies. I pity whichever one of those poor sods ends up slaving for Pike. If I were him, I’d slit my throat immediately.

Boggo reckons he’s got first dibs on nicknaming the first years. He’s already compiled an extensive list of possible names which include: Doggystyle, Gonad and Gastro.

Thank God I’m a senior.

Thursday 23rd January

8am   Assembly

The first assembly of the year was delayed until today because The Glock has only just returned from a disastrous skiing holiday to Austria. Apparently, the ski lift on which he and his wife were riding capsized, sending our headmaster and his wife crashing thirty feet into the snow. The Glock escaped with a broken wrist because he landed on top of his wife who cushioned the blow. Unfortunately, the force of the falling Glock broke his wife’s back and the poor woman is in traction for three months in a hospital in Vienna.

I must admit The Glock looked a little pathetic standing up at the podium trying to look intimidating with his broken arm and bruised face. I noticed the first years didn’t seem to be that scared of him. The Glock didn’t threaten us with violent punishment nor ramble on about discipline. He just said a quick prayer, mumbled a meek welcome and walked out.

Outside in the sunlight, Fatty said this was definitely The Glock’s bad karma coming back to bite him for the underhanded way he expelled Mad Dog and nearly expelled Rambo last year. Everyone shared a low-key high five and we went our separate ways.

Pike is back. I saw him at lunch. He sat at the prefects’ table and seems to have developed an extremely fake ultra-casual walk that he’s no doubt been practising in the holidays. The good news is that he’s not staying in the house. He’s living in one of the post matric residences, although I’m sure that won’t stop him from snooping around and tormenting people smaller than himself.

Friday 24th January

Woke up feeling nervous and excited about my chances for the cricket season. Today the school is announcing trial teams from the firsts all the way down to the sixth team (let’s hope it doesn’t come to that). Obviously, I’m at a disadvantage because I’m only in third year and I’m now competing with matrics and post matrics for places along with all the guys from my year as well. The good news is that the first team spinner from last year (Bongo Wilkens) decided he wasn’t going to make Natal Schools after all and has gone to UCT instead. Good man. According to Simon, trials lists are usually an indicator of where you’ll end up. I’m praying to make seconds although Simon informs me that I’ll only make thirds. Rambo says he’ll definitely make seconds and obviously Simon will play firsts. We wait until eleven o’clock. Tick-Tock.

8:00   Dad phoned to wish me luck for the trials announcement. He’s convinced I’m about to make my debut for the firsts, possibly as Captain. Unfortunately, he’s seriously misguided and semi-insane.

11:00   A jostling crowd had already gathered at the cricket notice board by the time I arrived. I could hear cheering and jeering in equal measure as each boy fought his way to the front of the mob and searched hopefully for his name. I began with the first and second team trial list, which was a grave mistake, because I immediately noticed that my name wasn’t there and grew instantly depressed, despite not expecting it to be there in the first place. I pushed my way across to the third and fourth team trial list and then I was overcome by that terrible sinking feeling when I saw my name down at bottom of the page under the column:

EXTRAS

I staggered away from the noisy crowd and returned to the empty dormitory where I lay on my bed for ten minutes to digest the news and stop shaking. My first reaction was that there was some kind of conspiracy against me, led by Sparerib, who is now the second team coach. Is it impossible that somebody could go from U15A to a reserve for the fourth team in one short holiday? Obviously, it is. Worse news is that Rambo was listed in the third team and there’s now a possibility that I may well end up playing with Garlic for the fifths!

16:30   When I returned from a private bowling session in the cricket nets, Meany Dlamini swore at me and said my dad had called seven times in two hours and screwed up his afternoon nap.

‘He wants to know what cricket team you’re in,’ he yelled, before slamming his bedroom door in my face.

I decided to call Dad and put him out of his misery, despite the fact that he’s certain to do something extreme when he hears that South Africa’s ‘next great legspinner’ is turning out for the fifths! Thankfully, Dad must have thought that I was joking because when I broke the news, he howled with laughter, called me a cheeky little bugger, and slammed the phone down. Who knows – perhaps sense will prevail at tomorrow’s trial match and I’ll be promoted to the thirds.

Simon, Rambo and Boggo spent the entire evening offering me coaching hints and sage pieces of cricket wisdom. This despite the fact that Boggo has never played cricket in his life. Vern thought my humiliation was utterly hilarious although I don’t know what the cretin was guffawing about because he’s the final EXTRA for the sixth team and what’s more, there is no seventh team. That officially makes Rain Man the worst cricketer in the school.

21:30   Lights out. Rambo called us to a huddle at his bed and spoke in a very quiet whisper. I can’t remember Rambo ever whispering at a Crazy Eight meeting before.

‘I’ve got some news from the inside,’ he whispered as we all drew in close.

‘Ja, from the inside of your mother,’ snarled Boggo in a malicious whisper.

Rambo clonked Boggo on his knee with the rim of his squash racquet and told him to shut up. Boggo collapsed onto the floor pretending to be seriously injured. He then got up and said his knee ligaments may have snapped. Rambo said Boggo should butch up and continued speaking in his conspiratorial whisper. ‘Look, we don’t have much time. Word on the inside is that the prefects are after us. I mean really after us!’

‘It’s Pike!’ hissed Simon angrily.

‘Who’s Pike?’ asked Garlic with a look of rising dread.

‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ said Rambo.

‘So what are we gonna do?’ asked Fatty, looking inspired.

‘We’re gonna be stealthy,’ replied Rambo. ‘Pike’s on duty tonight so he’s obviously gonna try something. I want everyone in their beds and total silence. Whatever you do, don’t let him goad you.’

The minutes painfully ticked by and I kept thinking about the cricket and Mermaid and felt like a complete failure. By 10:05 there was no sign of Pike. Fatty and Boggo became restless and I could hear whispering and the rustle of Fatty’s hand moving about his tuck box. Suddenly there were dark shadows at the foot of the dormitory door which then swung violently open as Pike burst in with Eggwhite trailing behind. Pike burped loudly and shouted, ‘Busted, you goat lickers!’

His triumphant shout was met with absolute silence, apart from the faint rustle of a chip packet from underneath Fatty’s duvet.

Then Pike said to Eggwhite, ‘I bet you the idiots have gone nightswimming! Quick – turn on the lights.’ Eggwhite stumbled over the bin while looking for the light switch. Towards the other end of the dormitory there was a stifled snigger. And then harsh light flooded the room.

Pike seemed utterly shocked that we were all sleeping. He woke us up by kicking our lockers and demanded to know what we were all up to. Rambo got out of bed, stepped forward and said, ‘We’re trying to sleep, Pike.’

‘You’re Pike!’ blurted Garlic for whom the penny had just dropped.

‘That’s a first,’ snorted Pike, baiting for an argument. ‘It’s Friday night – I thought Rambo and his bum chums always did naughty things on Friday night?’

‘Not any more,’ said Simon, glaring at Pike like he was Satan himself.

‘Ohhhhhh,’ cooed Pike, ‘let me guess. Your mommies and daddies all sat you down and told you to behave yourselves. My, what good little mommy’s boys you are.’

Rambo didn’t say anything but the whites of his knuckles were showing on the handle of his squash racquet.

‘I bet you never thought I’d be a prefect,’ said Pike with a self-satisfied look on his face.

‘To tell you the truth, Pike,’ replied Boggo, ‘we never thought you’d pass matric.’

Pike let out a raucous fake laugh and then spat a greeny at Boggo.

Despite Boggo’s snapped knee ligaments, he nimbly managed to duck down behind his locker and the missile landed safely on the curtain instead.

Pike snorted dismissively, and with a terrible grin said, ‘I’m gonna pick you sorry bastards off, one by one, until there’s no one left! And even better, it’s legal because I’m a prefect.’

‘You’re a prefect?’ cried Garlic in astonishment.

‘Who the fuck are you, pink face?’ demanded Pike.

‘I’m Garlic,’ replied Garlic.

‘Yeah, well I’m sweet basil so lick my arse,’ snarled Pike.

‘You’re nothing!’ shouted Simon, unable to keep himself under control any longer.

Pike sneered and said, ‘Well, if I’m nothing then I’m not here and if I’m not here, then that means you miserable fanny farts are talking after lights out. I’ll see you all in Viking’s office at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.’

Eggwhite tried to persuade Pike that he was being a little unreasonable but Pike shouted, ‘Shut up, dick-weed!’ and marched out of the dormitory. Eggwhite dithered for a moment before following Pike and gently closing the door behind him.

There was a long silence before Rambo spoke again in his low psychopathic voice. ‘I told you to say nothing, but it looks like we’re going to have to learn the hard way.’

He didn’t say any more and the dormitory fell into a cold silence.

Bring on tomorrow.

Saturday 25th January

BAD DAY BLUES

1) Pike told Viking that he caught us running amok after lights out.

We denied everything and said that Pike had set us up and the whole thing was a conspiracy. Pike then swore on his mother’s life that we were ‘running amok’ last night. Viking believed Pike and thrashed us viciously and with much relish.

2) The third team coach (Norm Wade) doesn’t believe in spinners. He told me this as I was measuring my run-up for my bowling trial. After the batsman missed the first five deliveries of my over he then managed to snick the final ball between the keeper and first slip for a lucky four. Norm Wade gave me back my cap and told me that I was far too expensive and that he had seen enough of my bowling. He then drew a sharp line through my name on his clipboard before calling Stinky to take my place.