The Whippingham College Saga, Part 7: Royalty Comes to Whippingham

  Several pupils gasped in amazement as the stately figure of Dr Septimus Seiss-Urquart, High Master of Whippingham College, the poshest and most strict public school in England, strode over Great Lawn, cane in hand, heading for the housemaster’s private entrance at Disembowellers, the third oldest residential house at the venerable college for the sons of the aristocracy. It was virtually unheard of that the High Master should visit a housemaster on a Monday morning as this was likely to coincide with the countless thrashings which would have built up over the weekend. Since arse-strapping was such a vital part of the educational process in all decent schools, it was important that nothing should interrupt it.

  Dr Seiss-Urquart arrived at the door to Dr Orland Crucifix’s outer study and was irritated to find a long queue of boys waiting with Punishment Request Forms (P.R.F.’s) in their trembling hands. The P.R.F. was the document which requested, authorised and recorded each caning, whipping, birching, strapping and flogging in triplicate for each and every pupil and was thus the key measure by which the educational process was checked. “No knowledge without pain” was the College motto (except of course it was in Ancient Greek). Such was the urgency of his mission the High Master had totally forgotten that Dr Crucifix would be occupied with catching up on house canings on a Monday. Nevertheless, he marched into the outer study to be confronted by Dr Crucifix’s secretary, the utterly hideous Miss Enid Heartless, a woman renowned for her obscenely bad breath and who was reputedly the ugliest female in Britain (moreover she was a hunchback into the bargain).

  ‘Good Heavens!’ cried Miss Heartless, forced to speak quite loudly to be heard over the muffled screams coming from the hapless pupil being caned in Dr Crucifix’s study, ‘High Master, this is indeed an unexpected honour. As you can hear, Dr Crucifix is engaged in administering justice to one of the sinful boys under his glorious  command.’
  ‘I must see Dr Crucifix immediately, Miss Heartless.’
  ‘Of course, High Master, please sit down and I shall inform him.’ She added, ‘I hope it will be in order for me to wait until the present thrashing is completed, as it would be unseemly for me to intrude and observe the vile wretch’s semi-nudity. I might puke if I saw the little rat’s bleeding bum, covered in bloody weals and faeces.’
  ‘Naturally. I would not wish to embarrass you, Miss Heartless. Such sights are best kept hidden from the weaker sex.’

  So they waited whilst the caning came to an end and a tearful child emerged, hobbling in agony, blood running down the back of his legs into his regulation grey socks. ‘Send the next little fucker in, Miss Heartless,’ screamed the learned doctor from behind the door, ‘I’m in fine form this morning!’ Dr Seiss-Urquart nodded in approval. That was the spirit he liked to see in his house masters!

  The hideous Miss Heartless knocked on the housemaster’s door, entered and Dr Seiss-Urquart heard a few murmured words before the Master of Disembowellers appeared, all four foot six inches of him, grasping a blood-stained 30-inch red rattan cane, and slightly out of breath.

  ‘Dr Crucifix, please forgive me for interrupting Monday thrashings, but I have a matter of great urgency to discuss. Please instruct Miss Heartless to tell the filthy little bastards to come back later.’
  ‘Of course, High Master, please come in,’ the diminutive doctor beamed. ‘Miss Heartless, tell the ugly little sods waiting out there they can stew for twenty-four hours. Or if I feel up to it, they might get their well-deserved thrashings this evening before chapel.’

  The greatly respected  High Master of Whippingham College swept into the inner study, accepted the armchair offered by the midget housemaster, and placed his cane across his knees; he sat down very carefully as his piles were particularly protuberant on Mondays. ‘Ouch, fuck it,’ he mumbled as he burst one of the delicate purple grape-like haemorrhoids hanging out of his hairy arsehole. He could feel the blood oozing onto his undies.

  ‘I realise it’s a little early, High Master, but might I tempt you to a glass of port? I have an excellent Dom Pedro de Anusao, Reserva do Reservas ’33, which I think you would appreciate.’ And hardly waiting for the High Master’s nod of agreement, Dr Crucifix poured a generous measure into one of his prized antique lead crystal glasses.
  ‘Your very good health, High Master!’
  ‘Mmmmm. An excellent vintage, my dear Doctor Crucifix. Even better than the Gran Reserva do Alfonso Buggeras ’40 which you kindly offered me the other week. I really must compliment you on your good taste.’
  ‘I am honoured to share the contents of my humble cellar with a connoisseur such as yourself, High Master.’ And so saying the tiny house master of Disembowellers sat himself down on his specially constructed high chair behind his mahogany desk, adjusting his support cushion so he could hide his deformity better. ‘What brings you here on a Monday morning, my dear sir?’

  Dr Seiss-Urquart leaned forward confidentially. ‘Firstly, I must tell you that what I have to say is highly confidential. I must ask you to swear on your honour as an Old Whippinghamian that you will not divulge what I shall tell you to a living fucking soul. Additionally I need your reassurance that that ghastly humpbacked witch Miss Heartless is not eavesdropping on us. By Holy Jesus Christ, she is a freakish creature!’
  ‘High Master, you have my oath. And also my assurance that the study door is soundproofed against everything except the noisiest screams of pupils being thrashed viciously for their disgusting sins and transgressions.’
  ‘Very well. Pin your ears back, my dearest colleague. This morning I received a letter from the High Commissioner for Bongobongoland,’ and here the High Master retrieved a gilt-edged parchment from his pocket, ‘His Excellency Mr George M’Bumbo Jumbo Wumbo Bongalooloo states that the King of Bongobongoland, His Supreme Highness King Bongo XXV, wishes to send his son, Crown Prince Bongowongo, to Whippingham. This is a great honour for the College, Dr Crucifix.’
  ‘But, High Master...’
  ‘And furthermore, the High Commissioner states that the King wishes his son to be enrolled at Disembowellers house.’
  ‘But, High Master…’
  ‘Mainly because disembowelling is apparently the favoured method of execution in Bongobongoland and thus the name of your house appeals to him.’
  ‘But, High Master…’
  ‘But what, Dr Crucifix?’
  ‘As I understand it, High Master, the Bongobongolanders are, well, black people, High Master. And Whippingham is a school for Englishmen, not darkies.’
  ‘I am aware of that, you stupid gnome.’
  ‘There has never been a darkie of any sort at Whippingham College, High Master…’
  ‘But this darkie is a fucking Prince, Dr Crucifix! He may be a nigger, but he’s a royal nigger! And, what’s more, King Bongo XXV is going to give the College half a million pounds in bursaries. There’s a hefty cut in that for both of us! We must find a way to get our hands on that great fucking pile of loot!’

  Dr Crucifix drained his glass of vintage port and topped up the High Master’s glass before replenishing his own. ‘If I may express myself bluntly, High Master, we have got ourselves one Hell of a fucking problem,’ he observed astutely. ‘We obviously can’t miss out on the loot, but how in Christ’s name can Disembowellers take on a godforsaken sambo?’

  ‘I have checked with the College statutes, Dr Crucifix,’ said the High Master, ‘And there is a loophole which we can use. Entry to Whippingham is confined to Englishmen; this is defined as boys born in England or boys born to English-born parents who happened to have been born abroad. As you know, that proviso was included in the eighteenth century to take account of the fact that some English lads were born to parents on service in the Raj. The College statutes don’t mention skin colour, mainly because when they were written no one ever thought a darkie could ever aspire to being educated. ’
  ‘How does that help us, High Master?’
  ‘It appears that Crown Prince Bongowongo was born in England. Before he ascended the Bongobongoland throne, the present King Bongo XXV was educated at St Swineherd’s College at Cambridge and he apparently got the daughter of one of the fellows pregnant, disgusting slut as she must have been. She subsequently gave birth to this Crown Prince Bongowongo and the old king, Bongo XXIV, insisted his son marry the girl. Then she got shipped out to Bongobongoland for her sins.’
  ‘Good God! You mean the Queen of fucking Bongobongoland is white? I never knew that, High Master.’
  ‘Well, Dr Crucifix, she was white while she was alive. But she was accused of adultery and witchcraft, found guilty on all charges and publicly disembowelled in the main square in Bongoville fourteen years ago.’
  ‘This means that this Prince Bongowongo boy is a half-caste!’
  ‘Technically you are correct, Mr Crucifix, but looking at this photo, you would never know!’ And so saying, the High Master passed over a full plate photograph of the Crown Prince. ‘He looks blacker than the ace of fucking spades!’
  ‘Holy Christ! He’s naked! And he’s enormous!’
  ‘Yes, he is apparently nearly eight foot high.’
  ‘I wasn’t referring to his height, High Master.’
  ‘Oh yes, I noticed that as well, Dr Crucifix; his cock is of a staggering length, like a bloody great black sausage.’ smiled Dr Seiss-Urquart. He added, ‘You know, this really is a remarkably fine port. You must give me the name and address of your vintners.’

  The two learned masters continued to discuss the problem for nearly two hours, demolishing two bottles of vintage port in the process. Dr Seiss-Urquart explained that he had been reassured by the High Commissioner that the Crown Prince of Bongobongoland spoke perfect English, having been privately tutored by an impoverished Oxford graduate; it was only the horrid death (by public disembowelling) under scandalous circumstances of this learned gentleman that had led to the decision to send the giant Prince Bongowongo to England to complete his education. It was obvious that the boy’s immense height meant he would indubitably be a great credit to the school on the athletics field (especially as he was apparently the junior marathon champion of Africa and totally fearless in close combat with any animal you cared to name). And they surmised that his skills with an assegai or Bongo spear could easily be directed towards javelin-throwing.

  The basic problem, they agreed drunkenly, would obviously be the reaction of the other boys and clearly precautions would need to be taken to control the lads’ natural abhorrence at a coon being foisted upon them. Had the King wished his son to attend any other house at Whippingham, the pupils there would undoubtedly have taken matters into their own hands and killed the Crown Prince on his first day, seeing the admission of a darkie to be totally out of order. However, Disembowellers had a more liberal tradition, having once had as a pupil the illegitimate son of the French president and a nymphomaniac English duchess. The black lad’s sporting abilities would clearly be an advantage, but not enough - then Dr Crucifix had a brainwave which impressed the High Master very much indeed.

  ‘We could use up part of the spade’s bursary to institute a treat for every single boy in the house! You know those sticky buns in the Tuck Shop, the ones with the soft pink icing on top which the boys love? We could issue a free bun every day to every Disembowellerian, and we could call them Bongo’s buns! The lads would be ever so grateful, High Master, you know what appalling food we have in the kitchens here!’
  ‘By Christ, Crucifix, that’s a splendid wheeze!’
  ‘Even better, High Master, I could arrange for the flavour of the icing to be changed to blackberry in the Crown Prince’s honour!’
  ‘And why not TWO free buns on Sundays?’
  ‘Why not, High Master, why not indeed!’ 

  The letter from the Bongobongolandian High Commissioner requested secure accommodation for the Crown Prince, his private chef (the Prince was fussy about what he ate) and his bodyguard (national Bongobongo security meant that the heir to the Bongo throne must be protected day and night); and Seiss-Urquart and Crucifix agreed that this would be essential to protect the boy from assassination attempts from the College Fascist Society, based mainly in Mosley Hall, but with patriotic outposts everywhere. Additionally it would be necessary to minimise the risk of any boy attempting to have a pash with the Crown Prince (the High Commissioner’s letter explained that, under Bongobongoland law, all homosexual acts incurred the death penalty by public disembowelling, which was the reason for the Prince’s tutor having lost his position).

  The disused North Wing of the historic Disembowellers buildings could be converted to accommodate the Prince and his entourage in seclusion and safety. And the costs involved would hardly make any inroads at all into the half a million pounds bursary on offer from the fabulously wealthy King Bongo XXV. The Disembowellers housemaster cracked open a third bottle of his exquisite port to celebrate and the High Master adjusted his dangling piles to allow his alcohol-fuelled farts of excitement and greed to pass more easily into the open.

  ‘This has been a fine morning’s work, Dr Crucifix!’ shouted the High Master ten minutes later, as he rose from his chair, swaying slightly under the influence of nearly a litre of the very finest fortified wine from the dwarfish housemaster’s cellar.
  ‘Yesh, indeed!’ slurred Dr Orlando Crucifix as he slid off his support cushion onto the floor, where he sprawled inelegantly, wetting his pants in the process.
  ‘If I were you, my dear fellow, I wouldn’t cane those lads we cancelled earlier until you’re totally sober. You might easily do yourself a fucking internal injury!’ And with that sparkling quip, the High Master of Whippingham took his majestic leave, sweeping out of the study and only just managing to smother a vinous burp as he passed by Miss Heartless, the hideous female secretarial hunchback, in the outer office.

  And it all came to pass as the two cunning pedagogues had planned it. The old North Wing of the Disembowellers building was converted into a private suite of accommodation for the Crown Prince and his small retinue and great skill was used by the skilled negro slaves whom the High Commission sent to effect the changes: a kitchen with a traditional Bongobongoland cooking range (comprising a huge pot suspended over an open fire) was installed and the Crown Prince’s bedchamber floor was covered with straw so as to make him really feel at home.

  One small problem had arisen subsequent to the teachers’ planning session: although King Bongo XXV naturally accepted that all pupils at Whippingham were subject to frequent serious bouts of corporal punishment for even minor offences, he nonetheless ruled that anyone who struck the Crown Prince would be guilty of treason and subject to disembowelling on the spot by the Prince’s personal bodyguard. However, the king suggested a solution which satisfied everyone: a “whipping boy” would be included in the Crown Prince’s retinue and, whenever Prince Bongowongo received a Punishment Request Form, the whipping boy would be substituted for the royal heir. In the event of the whipping boy dying from wounds received, a replacement could be shipped out by air freight within 48 hours. All decent Bongobongolanders would regard it as a great honour that their son was being thrashed in place of their beloved Crown Prince and there would be no shortage of volunteers.

  In any case, as the High Master wittily observed as he shared another bottle or two of delicious vintage port with the dwarf-like Dr Orlando Crucifix, a few weeks later just before the arrival of the royal party in the High Commission fleet of Rolls-Royces, who could tell the difference between one eight foot high n****r and another?
  ‘Alike as fucking peas in a fucking pod, High Master,’ agreed the devoutly Christian gnome of Disembowellers House, the supremely percipient Dr Crucifix, who knew very well on which side his bread was buttered.