Fags and Fagmasters

The fagging system, under which junior boys acted as unpaid servants to seniors, was once an inherent part of the English public school system. Nowadays, fags and their fagmasters are an endangered species since public schools, like other parts of British society, have been subjected to the drive for reform and modernisation. This personal memoir of fagging at a boarding school in the late 1950s provides a glimpse of a system which even then had both its detractors and defenders. The illustrations are taken from a book of the period depicting boarding school life.

I was allocated to my fagmaster soon after I arrived at my public school and found nothing strange in this. It was a common institution at such schools and was often lauded as a virtue of the public school system. One's fagmaster was supposed to act as a guide and mentor, helping the nervous new boy settle in and adjust to boarding school life. In return, the junior acted as an unpaid servant to his fagmaster, cleaning his shoes, brushing his clothes, keeping his study clean, running errands and so on.

Such was the theory. How the system worked in practice depended a lot on the individual fagmaster and I was unfortunate enough to be saddled with a real sadist named Haskins. This was a particular penance for me insofar as the fagmaster was authorised to administer corporal punishment to his fag if he failed to give satisfaction - and needless to say my particular fagmaster was always managing to find deficiencies in my performance.

I lost count of the whackings I suffered at the cruel hands of Haskins - anything from three to six painful cuts across my striped 'bags' from a stingy junior cane. Looking back, I suppose I could have complained to the head of house, but that boy (he looked more like a grown man to my young eyes) was a remote and unapproachable figure to a lowly junior fag. So for my first year at public school I was all too often the possessor of a well-striped backside, however diligently I performed my fagging duties.

I am pleased to say that in my second year I fagged for a senior who was a different kettle of fish altogether. Bryce-Davies only beat me a few times, and on each occasion I suppose I deserved it. And I must admit that he didn't whack me very hard, really only going through the motions. In fact we became quite good friends as the year progressed and my fagmaster confided to me that if he ever became head of house he would put an end to the beating of fags - at least in our house.

Well, good things do sometimes come to pass. Bryce-Davies eventually reached the lofty eminence of head of house and after discussing the matter with the housemaster managed to place a moratorium on beatings by fagmasters. The housemaster did insist that fagmasters retain the theoretical right to whack lazy or disobedient fags, but they would have to obtain the permission of the head of house first. And of course Bryce-Davies intended never to give such permission, hoping thereby that the practice would fall into disuse and die out.

I must now advance this narrative a few years to the time when I myself became a fagmaster. Bryce-Davies had long left the school, but the reform he instituted had endured. Whilst fagmasters at other houses in the school were still in possession of their swishy canes, corporal punishment of fags in my house was extremely rare. It has to be admitted that a number of juniors took advantage of this liberality and started to behave in a way they wouldn't have dared to in the other houses of the school. I was unfortunate enough to be saddled with one such difficult fag, who seemed to delight in cocking a snook at the system.

Jamie Harrison possessed a certain impish charm, but as a fag he was indolent and inefficient. Send him on an errand to a nearby shop and he was gone for what seemed an eternity; instruct him to clean your study and he would nonchalantly sweep the dust under the fireside rug. The final straw came when he took French leave one Sunday afternoon instead of being on hand to serve the guests at a study tea party I was giving for some friends. That very same evening I went along to Minton, the head of house, and asked for permission to beat the boy.

'I thought you didn't believe in whacking fags,' he said, laconically.

'There comes a limit to anyone's patience,' I replied, 'and Jamie Harrison has pushed me to my limit.'

Minton walked over to a tall cupboard in the corner of the spacious study allocated to him as head of house and extracted a shiny rattan cane with a curved handle.

'I think this is what you want,' he said. I felt an involuntary twinge in my backside as I gazed at the thin but decidedly lethal punishment cane. How I had come to dread the sight of just such a cane as a young first year fag. And how those whackings had stung, leaving my poor backside welted and sore for hours afterwards.

'You have my full permission to give the appalling Harrison what he so richly deserves,' said Minton, handing me the cane.

Early the next morning, when my fag arrived (late, as he all too often was) to wake me and run my bath, I told him that I was greatly dissatisfied with his performance and intended to punish him. 'I've spoken to Minton about you, Harrison, and he agrees that it's about time you were brought up sharp.'

'What do you mean?' said the junior, spinning around to face me with a defiant look.

'I mean I'm going to beat you.'

'You must be joking. Fags in this house don't get whacked.'

'That's where you're wrong. Useless fags like you can be thrashed if all else fails.'

'You're not whacking me!'

'If you prefer you can appeal to Minton, but he will no doubt send you to the housemaster - and you know what that means. It's very likely that Mr Pomfret will thrash you trousers-down as is his normal practice with junior boys...'

'I...I wouldn't want a whacking from old Pommie...but how many strokes do you want to give me?'

'I think six would be in order.'

'SIX! I don't deserve that many...'

'Make your mind up. You can either be punished by me or beaten by Mr Pomfret trousers down.'

'Alright...you win...I'll take a whacking from you.'

I was lounging in my study armchair after evening tea when a very sheepish Harrison knocked at the door. He shuffled into the study looking both contrite and extremely sorry for himself.

'Alright Harrison, let's get this over and done with. Take of your jacket.'

Much to the boy's embarrassment I checked to see that he had not attempted to introduce any protective padding or put on an extra pair of underpants. I then made him bend over the armchair with his backside well pushed out so that the seat of his striped school trousers was tightly stretched.

'I'd better warn you that this cane is going to sting.' ('I ought to know,' I thought to myself, recalling my miserable time as a first year fag.) 'However, I don't want any nonsense from you. You can blub as much as you want, but there is to be no jumping about.'

'I won't be blubbing,' said Harrison, defiantly.

I laid on the first cut good and hard, the sound of the impact echoing like a pistol shot around the study. Harrison groaned and let out a gulping breath. I recalled how the methodical Haskins had always taken his time, so that the burning pain could really sink in, and I likewise allowed an interval of several seconds between the strokes. By cut number four Harrison was blubbing, despite his best endeavours, and was obviously in some distress.

Once the boy had calmed down a little I laid on the final two cuts, just as hard as the first four. Harrison wriggled and writhed in agony and his tears were now flowing freely.

'Alright, you can get up. Do you have a handkerchief?'

'It's in my jacket pocket,' said Harrison, still sobbing.

I extracted a grubby hankie from his jacket and handed it to the boy. Once he had dried his eyes he began to regain his composure.

'How does it feel now?'

'My bum's still throbbing a bit - you know, sort of glowing.'

'And have you learnt your lesson? I don't want to have to do this again.'

'Yes, I never want another swishing like that one.'

And truth to tell he had learnt his lesson, for from that time onwards Jamie Harrison proved to be a much better fag altogether.