The Whippingham College Saga, Part 4: Love and Death in Daniel's Den

I have decided that PART FOUR of the Whippingham Saga is probably unsuitable to post in full here at AllPoetry.com since it deals with certain subjects which the admin aren't happy with being treated as jokes (under-age sex and paedophilia). Thus I have produced a CENSORED version below. If you wish to read it in its full glory, the link to where I have posted it at another site is given below in author's notes. If any moderator reads it and feels it would be OK to post in full, please let me know.


1: THE DAWN OF LOVE

Knock! Knock! Knock!
Professor Daniel Drawblood glanced up from his desk in the House Master’s Study at Birchington, one of the most prestigious houses at Whippingham College, the poshest and severest public school in England. ‘Come!’ he bellowed heartily, reluctantly closing his favourite album, wondering who was disturbing him in his perusal of his collection of artistic undraped photographs of Edwardian male nudes. The door opened and Rodney Clitheroe-Wellington was revealed.

‘Please sir, sorry to disturb you sir, but Miss Bollom sent me to give you this.’ The speaker was a bright-eyed, good-looking lad and he approached Drawblood’s desk and held out the familiar Punishment Request Form (PRF). In order to ensure that all beatings were recorded appropriately, the three-part PRF system had been developed by the High Master: the form detailed the offence, requested punishment and was signed by the complainant; the punisher detailed the number of strokes doled out and the implement used and signed the PRF off, retaining the (pink) under-copy for his files. The top (white) copy went into the pupil’s record and the bottom (blue) copy was sent to the High Master’s secretary so that she could keep a record of how many strokes each housemaster had given. Each week, the winner received a bottle of wine from the High Master’s private cellar, one of the finest collections of rare clarets in England.

Drawblood looked at the PRF and read, ‘Dear Housemaster, Please thrash this wretched boy soundly. He emitted an unseemly noise from his bowels in class. Thank you, signed Belinda Bollom, Pottery Mistress’.

‘This is most unseemly conduct, Clitheroe-Wellington. Is the accusation made by Miss Bollom true, that you in fact farted noisily in Pottery Class?’
‘Yes sir, I am sorry sir. It was an accident, sir. We had baked beans for lunch and I just couldn’t help it.’
‘How noisy was it, Clitheroe-Wellington?’
‘Quite noisy, sir. I said I was sorry to Miss Bollom but she said a gentleman should control himself, and she gave me the PRF, sir.’
‘Hmmm. Well, since Miss Bollom has specifically requested I beat you for the offence, I shall do so. I do not regard the episode as particularly serious, particularly bearing in mind the composition of luncheon today, so I shall be lenient. You will drop your trousers and bend over the official punishment chair and I shall give you twelve of the best.’

Professor Daniel Drawblood rose from his chair and walked over to his cane cupboard. He carefully selected one of his less vicious weapons. He felt that Miss Bollom, silly cow that she was, had over-reacted to a simple fart, but it was his duty to administer punishment. When he turned round, young Clitheroe-Wellington’s bare arse was already on display, waiting for justice. Drawblood looked at it ********** *** ******* ********* ****** ******** ** gently, checking for any half-healed wounds he needed to avoid during the coming thrashing.

‘You do not seem to have any weals on your arse, Clitheroe-Wellington. Have you not been caned for some time?’
‘I got six from Westinghouse-Thackeray for cheeking him sir, last week.’
‘With a slipper?’
‘Sawn-off hockey stick, sir.’
‘Hmmm. He can’t be much good with a slap-stick, then, there’s no marks at all.’
‘The chaps don’t think much of Westinghouse-Thackeray sir. He’s got a weak right arm.’
‘There’s no need to be disrespectful about the Head Prefect, Clitheroe-Wellington.’
‘Sorry sir.’
‘Very well, prepare to receive twelve strokes of justice for your disrespect to a lady!’

Drawblood flicked his cane in the air and, with a graceful movement for such a large man (seven foot three in his stockinged feet) he brought down the cane with a resounding thwack on the boy’s delicate white buttocks.
‘Ouch!’ cried Rodney Clitheroe-Wellington.
Snap!
‘God damn it,’ cried the giant housemaster, ‘the fucking cane’s broken!’

The boy, still bent double over the punishment chair, turned round and, seeing Professor Drawblood standing in amazement with a shattered cane in his hand, called out, ‘I claim Pax Whippinghamiensis, sir!’
‘Good God! This is indeed your lucky day, my lad! Pax Whippinghamiensis is indeed applicable and it is granted. The eleven strokes you had coming are hereby commuted.’ And Drawblood ******* *** ***** ****** ******** reflectively before adding, ‘**** ****** **** *** ******** ****** ********* ******* ** **** ****. ** ********* ***** ***** ********* reminiscent of a Michaelangelo statue’

‘May I speak freely sir?’ asked Clitheroe-Wellington.
‘Of course, of course.’
‘***** **** **** ** **** ****** *** ** ******* ****?’
‘Most ***** ***** are broadly similar, Clitheroe-Wellington.’
‘I meant a ********** ****, sir.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘* **** ** ******* **** ****. **** ** *** ** **** ******.’
Drawblood reacted to the lad’s words as though he had been pole-axed. ‘What?’ he gasped. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Pater told me that you and he had been jolly good chums when you were lads together here at Birchers before the war, sir.’
‘He told you that?’
‘Yes sir, he told me that he was your **** ** *** *** ****, sir.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘And he told me that you really used to like *** **** sir.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘And he told me lots of other stuff too, sir.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘About **** *** **** ** ** ********, sir.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘But you needn’t worry sir, I haven’t told a soul, not even Wigglesworth minor.’
‘What in holy fuck has Wigglesworth minor got to do with it?’
‘**** ** ***** ** ** ** ****, sir, *** *** *** ** **** ** ***.’
‘Wigglesworth mi is beneath you, Clitheroe-Wellington, a most unprepossessing youth, *** ***** **** ******** * **** ****** *** ***** ***.’
‘Yes, sir. There IS someone else who I like much more, someone I’m really keen on, someone I really respect.’
‘And who is that?’
‘**** *** *** ******* *** **** **** *****.'

Professor Daniel Drawblood, M.A.(Cantab.) gasped in a heady combination of joy and horror. ** ***** **** **** ********* ***** *** ** *********** ** *** **** **** **** ** ****** ***** **** ****** *** ** ** *** ****! He looked at the ******** **** ** *** *****, still bent over the official punishment chair, his delectable ***** **** ******* ******** *** ** ************. And yet the risks involved if he betrayed the trust placed on him by the High Master, by the Whippingham Governors, by his old friend Algernon Clitheroe-Wellington, the father of the lad who was now ******** ******* ** *** *****.

‘Clitheroe-Wellington! I am overwhelmed at these intimations of **** ********* *** ******* *** *** *** **** *** ******* ****** *** ***’
‘Please call me Rodney, sir, and I’ll call you Danny, **** ** ***** **** ** **.’
And with those softly spoken words, Drawblood knew that he was lost, **** ** *** ****** ** * ******* he had bravely fought against for so many years.
‘Shall we lock the study door, sir, *** **** * **** *** ***** ***** **** ** *** **** *** **** ************ **** *****?'


2: THE FORCE OF DESTINY

(1st para deleted in its entirety, as any partial censorship would have undermined its perfection.)

Both master and pupil had to be careful – no one must even suspect **** ***** *** ******** ******** ***** ** or the repercussions would be utterly horrendous. Drawblood had to stand by helplessly when *** ******* *** ******** ** ****** **** ******* *** ***** ******** *** ** *** ******* ** ***** to see the scars on *** ********* ******** **** after the High Master gave him twenty-four strokes for failing his half-term Biology exam. On three occasions, Drawblood had to falsify Punishment Request Forms by stating he had beaten *** ***** ******** ** ***** ***** **** ******* ******* ** **********. Ironically, it was these non-existent beatings which helped him to win the housemasters’ thrashing league one week; his prize, a bottle of Chateau Mouton-Vache `38, was shared by the ****** ** *********** ******* *** *****. Ah but they were halcyon days, days of joyous abandon as *** ***** *********** *** *** ******** ********* ** *** ****** ****** ** *******! ******** **** ***** **** *** ******** when disaster struck.

‘Enter!’ bellowed the Professor in response to three timid knocks on the door of the study. Wigglesworth minor, a spotty and slightly overweight boy came in, a familiar PRF in his grubby hand.
‘Please sir, the Head Gardener sent me to see you sir.’
Mr Drawblood took the crumpled Punishment Request Form from Wigglesworth’s outstretched hand. The Head Gardener, Ernest Higgins, had caught Wigglesworth taking a dump on the vegetable patch behind the potting sheds and demanded a “bloody good hiding” for Wigglesworth.

‘Is this true, Wigglesworth minor? Can I believe my eyes? You were caught having a crap on Mr Higgins’s veggies?’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’
‘Were you brought up in a barn, Wigglesworth minor? Are you some kind of animal? Have you not heard of toilets?’
‘I was taken short sir. I couldn’t help it sir. It was either that or I’d have had to do one in my trousers.’
‘By Christ, Wigglesworth minor, you are a disgusting piece of human filth. Get your pants down, bend over the punishment chair and expect no mercy from me. Believe me, after what I am going to give you, you’ll be ******* ***** for a week! I sentence you to thirty strokes!’

The enraged Drawblood marched over to his cane cupboard and began rummaging about for his nastiest and flexiest cane, the one the boys called “Old Slasher” when he heard a little wavering wail from Wigglesworth.

‘Please don’t beat me sir.’
‘Shut your mouth, Wigglesworth minor, and take your punishment like a true Whippinghamian, like a decent member of Birchington House, not like the snivelling little worm you are!’
‘I wouldn’t beat me if I was you sir.’
‘What? How dare you speak to me like that! And no subjunctive in your sentence either! That will cost you an extra six strokes from Old Slasher here!’ And the giant housemaster waved his cane in the air for emphasis.
‘If you beat me, sir, I’ll tell the High Master about you.’
‘You’ll ******* do what, Wigglesworth ******* minor?’
‘I’ll tell him about *** *** ********************* ****.'
‘What?’ shrieked the giant ********** *******. ‘What did you fucking well say?’
‘I’ll tell him you’ve **** ******* **** ******************** *** *** **** ****** ***.’
‘Jesus, holy Mary Mother of God!’
‘**** ******************** ******** **** * **** **** *** * ***** *** ** ***** *** ******* **** *** ** **** ***** *** but it was a secret, ** ********** *** *** ***** **** ** **** ** ***** *** ***. I thought he was ******* **** *** ** *** ********, but it was you, sir.’
‘My God, you little bastard!’
‘But if you let me off, I won’t tell anyone sir, I promise.’

In an uncontrollable paroxysm of rage, the huge ginger-haired master grabbed hold of little Wigglesworth and shook him like a bulldog shakes a rat. When the boy screamed in terror, Drawblood placed one immense hand over his ***** and encircled the boy’s ******* **** with his other hand, throttling the very life out of him. After a minute or so, the lad stopped struggling and the half-demented Drawblood threw *** **** to the floor in horror and disgust. The housemaster fell to the ground to check for Wigglesworth’s pulse. None. The boy was dead.

‘**** *** **** ** * ** ***?’ he snarled to himself. ‘**** * **** * **** ****! ***** * **** * *****, now I’ve killed one of the little *******!’ He swore to himself that, if he ever got out of the terrible mess he had got himself into, he would *** *** ****** **** ****** (oh how that would break his heart! How he ***** ****** *******!) and, furthermore, he would keep his ***** **** ******** ** ** ********* in future.

Daniel Drawblood was perhaps the most intelligent and resourceful teacher at Whippingham College and in a few minutes he had evolved a plan, a plan which might just work. If no one had seen Wigglesworth minor enter his study, then no one need know the boy had ever been to see him. The boy, fearful of the dreadful punishment that would be his for doing a shit in Mr Higgins’s vegetable garden, could have hanged himself first on the Old School Gibbet, with the Punishment Request Form in his hand! In any case, Wigglesworth’s absence wouldn’t be noted until house roll-call in the morning, by which time rigor mortis should have set in. Thank God, smirked Drawblood to himself, the Birchington suicide rate was slightly lower than average compared to the other houses at Whippingham, so his own performance record as housemaster would not be too badly affected by one more death.

He put the boy’s body into his cane cupboard and went to fetch a sack from the gardener’s shed. After Master’s Supper and Lights Out, he would **** ***** ****** ** *** **** ***** and he would find out if Wigglesworth had ever mentioned his snooping. Then, once *** **** *** ******** ** *** ****, he could carry the corpse over to the gibbet and string it up for old Scroggins the gatekeeper to find in the morning.

After he had ***** *** ********* **** ** *** ***** **** ** *** ***** *****, Drawblood asked, ‘********** ** ** *** ****, ******* *******?’
‘Funny you should mention that, Danny, but that little prat Wigglesworth minor seems to have run away.’
‘Wigglesworth? Isn’t he the lad you told me ****** ** **** **** ****?'
‘That’s him. I told him to *** *******, Danny. He was so ******** and wanted to know who else I was going to **** **** *******. But I never told him a thing!’
‘And you say he’s gone missing? Not in his bed?’
‘Nowhere to be seen!’
‘After you’ve **** **** ** **** ****, I’ll check to see if there’s a message from Matron. He may have reported sick. Or he may have run away, the ****** ****** ******! But let’s not waste *** ******** **** ******** ******* ***** on that ***** ** ****. Guess what, Rodney? * ***** *** ******* ******* ******!’
‘Ooooh yes, * ***** **** *** *** ** ***** ** ** ** *****!’

And Drawblood’s plan worked to perfection. The gatekeeper raised the alarm at seven o’clock and, by nine-thirty, the college doctor had signed off the death as suicide by hanging, yet another tragic wasted young life at the strictest public school in all of England. As the High Master, Dr Septimus Seiss-Urquart, Ph.D, D.D, M.S., remarked to his colleagues over Masters’ Supper that night, ‘We needn’t shed any tears for the cowardly little ****** who can’t take the rough with the smooth. Professor Drawblood, you did your best for the lad, but he just didn’t have what it takes to succeed at Whippingham!’


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