From the autobiography of Patrick Lichfield, who attended Harrow School in the early 1950s

The Earl of Lichfield is a well known professional photographer

The emphasis on formation of character excused a multitude of sins, not the least of which was the almost incredibly primitive accommodation, a piquant mixture of grandeur and squalor that my grandfather later confirmed had survived unchanged since at least his time and probably longer. Harrow was squalid, grubby and extremely cold, unsurprisingly so, since every bucket of coal had to be dragged up several flights of stairs by hand; although matters had improved slightly since the eighteenth century (when boys wanting a bed to themselves were required to pay a special fee), each boy's room was still little more than a cupboard with a wooden bed and a canvas mattress that had to be let down from the wall at night.

The junior boys - the fags - constituted a terrified under-race who lived with one ear constantly cocked for the long loud summons from on high: 'Boy. Boy! BOOOOOY!!!' Since the last boy to arrive inevitably got the job, a scrum would be forming even before the cry had died, a desperate knot of youthful determination that rolled up four or more flights of stairs, kicking, gouging and punching in a small riot of character formation. The smallest lost, and I found myself supplementing my domestic education with an endless round of boot-cleaning, coal-heaving and errand-running, evolving rapidly into the tiniest, best-trained, least-paid manservant in the history of Harrow.

I also found out about beating. The first official beating that I had had, over and above Nanny's ministrations with the back of a hairbrush, was at my prep school and I had been severely surprised to discover just how low was my threshold for physical discomfort. At Harrow I discovered an entirely new dimension of pain, amplified and extended by a bizarre ritual theatre.

A misdemeanour, once reported, set in motion a system of organised retribution that moved with an impressively awesome lack of pace. The process began with a 'Haul-Up'. The offender would be gravely summoned from the silence of late-night prep to present himself in the Head of House's room where a group of senior boys would lay the facts of the matter before him. Arguments would be heard, statutes cited and excuses shot down in flames before the tribunal retired to deliberate behind closed doors.

This trial by ordeal was quite capable of being prolonged over several haul-ups spread over several weeks until finally judgement was delivered: the offender would be beaten, not today, probably not tomorrow, but certainly at some time in the near future. So the waiting began, made no easier by the knowledge that the Head of House was public Schools' Rackets Champion, the athletic owner of a perfect forehand smash. In time, just as it seemed quite obvious that the whole thing had surely been forgotten or even forgiven, the terrible call would come echoing down the sleeping corridors, summoning the duty fag to summon in turn the miserable miscreant.

The event itself rarely proved anti-climactic; it was not unknown for blood to be drawn by a prefect’s cane and it was rumoured that matron was ordered to be on stand-by with smelling salts to revive the wounded. At the end of the proceedings all of the parties involved gravely thanked the others before leaving. We were, after all, nothing if not perfect gentlemen.