A public school caning

I was born and raised in Oxford. My parents were very conscious of the need for a good education. What they had in mind was for me to receive secondary education at somewhere considered better than a 'grammar' school (which required at that time that students pass the 11+). In Oxford there was Magdalen College School (then a direct-grant school) which received some of its income from the local authority and the remainder in fees from parents. They called it a 'Public' School.

Thanks partly to its famous university, Oxford in the 1960s enjoyed a reputation as a 'progressive' city. The use of the cane in boys' schools had been declining owing to the growing conviction that beating boys' bottoms constituted an outdated and often ineffective form of punishment which had no place in an institution of learning. Magdalen, however, still had a reputation as a whacking school.

The July of 1964 saw me nearing the end of my second year there and I was beginning believe that the school's reputation for caning was exaggerated. Yes, there were occasional beatings, but only a couple boys in my class had ever been caned, and the punishment had been limited to two or three strokes. Written impositions were the normal everyday punishment. I didn't enjoy school at all: I hated the uniform, the religious instruction, the compulsory sports - but above all I hated the bullying nature of many of the masters. I developed a decidedly hostile attitude which soon caught the attention of the teachers and administrators.

After marking one of my history essays the teacher instructed me, in his handwriting in pencil in my exercise book, to write out approximately seven mis-spelled words. Spelling corrections five times each, he wrote. I couldn't be bothered to do it, so I simply took a pencil eraser and rubbed out his instructions. The next time my history book was returned to me after a homework assignment, he looked at me in a strange way and said: 'Boy - you've done something unspeakable and you could well get beaten for it'. 'What, sir ?', I enquired, trying to maintain an innocent look. 'I told you to write out these spelling corrections five times each and you've insulted me by rubbing them all out'.

I realised I was in some kind of trouble - but I'd managed to talk myself out of trouble before. However, I could sense the glee of my classmates at the thought of me receiving a whacking; perhaps they thought it was time I was taken down a peg or two. Using a red ballpoint pen the history master circled the the feint remains of his black graphite pencil and wrote in my exercise book the words, This makes me VERY ANGRY. 'You are to present this to your Form Master', he said. 'I shall also inform him myself about the nature of your offence.'

I had performed better than expected in the end-of-year exams and I thought it unlikely that I would be beaten for such a comparitively trivial offence. The next day at morning registration I confidently approached my Form Master, Mr Calderbank, and pointed out the evidence of my misdemeanor. He said he had already spoken to the history master and that he was getting tired of repeated complaints about my conduct. 'Right - that's it - you're going to be beaten! You are to report to Mr Garside at twenty-to-one today in this room'.

I'll admit that I was shocked. I had heard all about these beatings - and now I was going to be at the receiving end. 'This room will be out-of-bounds at twenty-to-one today', he announced to the rest the class. Everyone knew what that meant. I spent the rest of the morning in a state of forboding and dread. Mr F A Garside, our House Master, was a man in his mid fifties, at least 6' 4" tall and very fit. He was also renowned as the possessor of a strong right arm.

All too soon twenty-to-one arrived and I went up the stairs to my form room. The regular lunchtime inhabitants were milling about outside, upset at being displaced from the room. I received a few knowing glances from my classmates as I knocked timidly on the door and entered, taking care to close the door quietly behind me. Mr Garside was in an angry mood. He had cleared an area in the centre of the room and directed me towards the spot. 'Bend over and touch your toes'.

Then came the moment I'd been dreding all that morning. I had an upside down view of the towering Mr Garside through my legs and watched as he picked up a big shiny cane. He lifted the rod high and, taking a rapid stride forward, landed the cane across my tightly stretched trouser seat as forcefully as he could manage. It made a terrible cracking noise but at first I hardly felt anything. However, a moment later a terrible stinging pain seared across my buttocks and I almost yelled with agony. It really hurt!

Mr Garside inflicted an equally forceful second stroke abd then a third. 'That must be it', I thought. 'No one gets more than three strokes'. I started to straighten up, but Mr Garside put his hand on my back, 'Get back down', he said. 'I haven't finished with you yet!'

'Christ - I can't take much more of this,' I thought as I touched my toes again and saw Mr Garside taking aim for stroke number four. My bum was already as sore as hell and this extra stroke made it even sorer. I remember thinking, 'Any more and I'll collapse in agony', when I heard those heaven sent words: 'You can go now'.

I hobbled out of the form room clutching my burning behind. A number of my classmates were still milling about in the corridor and I forced myself to smile. 'That was a piece of cake,' I muttered. 'I'd rather get whacked than have to waste time writing an imposition anyday...' (The last statement was a lie, by the way.)