The School Lecture

What Ho Proles!

I’ve just spent a morning at the local comprehensive school, here in C---- N----; an adventure that was every bit as frightful as I might have imagined it.

The invite had come by way of Maurice Jones Lewis, an old school governor friend of mine, who shares my love of firing heavy-duty ordinance in the general direction of wildlife. We’d been on a shooting party a few weeks ago when he asked if I might lecture his sixth form about real life. Before I knew it, the lecture had become a seminar series and the sixth form had become the whole school. Today was the day when I was due to give my maiden speech to four hundred children. My subject was the question of courage in modern life, thinking I might give to the many the sort of advice which is harder to give to the few. Not a bad plan, I thought, though I wouldn’t say it went 100% as expected. But then, what can be done about sensitivities of children these days? They lack proper backbone and get upset over the smallest thing.

For once, I left My Man at home where he had to oversee the cleaning of the chimney in the drawing room. I’d parked the Bentley down in village and was preparing to nip into The Boar’s Tusk to have myself a quick tipple to steady the nerves. My plans were interrupted when the local butcher came out of his shop and called me over. It tends to be the way when you’re such a popular member of the gentry that tradesmen will occasionally slip you the odd present in order to remember them the next time a planning proposal crosses your desk or the local council requires a large shipment of beef. Usually it means I don’t have to pay for a meal or I escape a traffic ticket, but this morning, I was presented with multiple packages of neatly wrapped organs of a bull that had gone under the knife that morning. Not knowing what to do with the packages of meat, I put them into my satchel, and by the time he'd finished telling me about state-of-the-art hair removal from pigs trotters, I had to ankle it pretty quickly to the school.

The school is typical of many in the country, overwhelmed by a tide of children. They cram them into every cubicle, cupboard, and bicycle rack, which of course, says much about the government’s claim to be spending spending spending on the schools. When you have to walk on the walls to get to a classroom, you tend to think the spending goes somewhere other than on floor space.

As it was, I had a brief but cramped tour of the school before I was led into the main hall where the school quickly gathered to hear some wisdom from Yours Truly. My lecture went rather well, spending forty minutes briefing them on the need for this nation to learn a bit of courage, and then I told the young tykes a few anecdotes about my time in London and gave them my usual warning about keeping their feet off foreign soil. I think they took it to heart and there were murmurs of appreciation when I mentioned my suspicions about Germany’s plans for the European Union.

Feeling quite good about myself, I sat back down as the headmaster came up on stage and began to explain how I’d agreed to hand out the school prizes. Not that I had, of course, but prize giving is one of those staples of being a Tory candidate. One must simply grit ones teeth and get on with it.

And on with it, I certainly got. Processions of eager young things came up and grabbed my paw. And things were rummy until one young spike comes running up on stage, eager as anything to get his prize for heavens knows what. I handed it out, shook his sweaty mitt, and off he runs again. I don’t quite know what happened next but I do know that my chair had been near the top of steps leading up to the stage. The tyke must have got his foot looped around the strap to my satchel because the next thing I know: he and said bag are ten feet below me, coming to rest in a group of first years. There was the usual happy yells of children in a shambles, and the typical thrashing about of juvenile legs. It was followed, moments later, by one of the loudest scream I think I’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing. It was then that I believe a teacher fainted.

I did not understand at first but it would appear that the packages of meat had spilled out from my bag and, caught in a maelstrom of youth, been torn open. There was blood everywhere and the hall was soon a seething mess of meat battered beneath children’s feet. What I believe made the teacher faint was the sight of the young spike from the stage standing up with a bull’s glistening heart in his hands. It was like the school had decided to re-enact a scene from Lord of the Flies and the only thing missing was the pig’s head stuck on a pole.

Eventually, calm was restored and two dozen bloodied children (all unhurt) were taken away for a good scrubbing. I apologised about the meat but I didn’t see what fault it was of mine. I’m due to give another speech next week but we’ve agreed to postpone it until the children have had some psychological counselling to help them get over the ordeal.

It’s been an odd day so far. The good news is that the meat won’t go to waste. Cook believes she can save what bits I retrieved from the school floor and intends to make a stew for the stable boys. I now need a large whisky to calm my own nerves. I imagine my morning looked a little bit like the Somme on a bad day.

TTFN.