The Whippingham College Saga, Part 10: A Glorious New Dawn

  A few weeks had passed since the mighty pedagogue, the famous Dr Septimus Seiss-Urquart, Ph.D., D.D., M.S., High Master of Whippingham College, England's poshest and strictest public school, an academic institution famous for bringing the art of caning as an aid to learning to its apogee, had announced that (after nearly twenty years at the helm of Whippingham) he would be laying down his weapons of punishment. What bitter rivalry there was in the quest to succeed him! By hallowed tradition, the outgoing High Master alone could name his successor and now the great classics teacher and fabled thrasher of arses had made his decision. And it was a fucking corker.

  Thus, on the afternoon before Closing Dinner on the penultimate day of term, the seven house masters of Whippingham were once more assembled in the High Master’s lodgings, resplendent in their full academic garb, according the class of their degree, naturally complete with mortar boards. Miss Spankington, the High Master's private secretary and secret mistress, was seated next to Dr Seiss-Urquart, in recognition of the place she had won in his affections. She wore heavier mascara than usual, mainly to disguise the fact that she was not fully recovered from the staggering black eye which she had received from a total stranger in the village the previous week; she naturally did not know said stranger had been acting on a bribe from the resourceful Mr Elgar, house master of Mosley Hall, in revenge for her having spiked his coffee with extreme laxative a few weeks before. She was lucky not to have sustained greater injuries, but she had clouted her assailant with her handbag and, his nose broken by the horseshoe it contained, he had scuttled off into the night. On her last day as the High Master’s Secretary she would be taking the minutes of the historic meeting, even though her vision was still slightly blurred. 

  The learned Dr Seiss-Urquart, pedagogue beyond compare, rose to his feet and, lifting his glass of 1923 Tio San Pedro Gran Bodega Amontillado in the air, toasted the College in Latin verse, beautifully enunciated in his incredibly upper class accent.
  ‘Vivat Whippingham!’ roared the assembled company, glasses held high.
  ‘A remarkably exquisite sherry, High Master,’ purred Captain Lasher, the one-legged war hero, as he struggled back into his seat, trying not to bump his stump. 'Utterly fucking delicious, if you'll pardon my French.'
  ‘Gentlemen, my dear colleagues, please enjoy your wine – do not hesitate to replenish your glasses from the decanters on the table!’

  Laying down his cane on the table, the High Master spread out his hands in welcome to his guests; he spoke sonorously as follows, realising the assembled jingbang were hanging on to his every word.
  ‘The time has come for me to announce my successor as 18th High Master of our beloved college. As I promised you a few weeks ago, I would be carefully assessing each and every one of you on a variety of criteria and I have now completed my investigations. Not only have I checked out each house’s academic, sporting and punishment records, but I have even canvassed the opinions of the Governors, a few of our more illustrious parents and I have spoken to the head prefect of each house.’
The Very Reverend Adolphus Samuel Psaydysste-Streke, the insanely cruel ex-Jesuit house master of Thrashmore Hall, caught his breath in horror at this latter revelation but, wisely considering the savagery of the High Master’s temper, kept his peace. He did not want a cut from the Black Mambo, the world's most painful 42-inch cane which, as always, was in Dr Seiss-Urquart's right hand in case of lip from anyone.

  ‘So, let me give you the results of my deliberations and investigations, my dear sirs. And,’ this to Miss Spankington in an aside, ‘Cynthia, my dear, please minute what I say carefully! Except for anything libellous of course.’
  ‘Of course, High Master,’ she replied, blushing at the use of her Christian name in the presence of the assembled masters. Her knickers were still wet at the memory of the formidable blowjob she had administered to her highly educated and over-sexed fiancé not ten minutes earlier.

  ‘Firstly, Colonel Doom, house master of Flogwell House for so long. Although, my dear Colonel, you have coped manfully with being wheelchair bound as a result of an unfortunate incident, and the outbreak of syphilis at Flogwell was mercifully contained without any scandal, I have to say that it would be impossible for a near-cripple to be High Master. After all, you have been obliged to sub-contract most of your beatings to your colleagues. I have also heard that rumours are circulating concerning your incontinence and your fondness for women's clothing.’ At this, Seiss-Urquart exchanged a secret smile with Mr Elgar, who had helpfully mentioned these facts to him two weeks ago.

  ‘Next, Mr De’Ath. Your house, Ramsbottom’s, has performed well academically under your leadership and you have achieved a most praiseworthy reduction in suicide and truancy rates. I fear, however, this has been at the expense of discipline. The average number of canings per boy per term is remarkably low at Ramsbottom’s and, I must say, I was not pleased to notice love bites on the necks of several of your First Eleven in the inter-house cricket last week. This indicates rampant queerism, especially since so many bites were on the back of the lads' necks, suggesting sodomy had been involved. In any case, the shame you brought on the college by admitting a Jew to your house is universally known. So, you will not be my successor.’ The good doctor farted odorously at this juncture and the fumes caused an outburst of coughing. 'Sorry about that, gentlemen. I blame the sprouts at lunch today.'

  ‘Captain Lasher, I have been proud to have a great war hero as house master at Flagellators, and I have been impressed by the way you thrash your boys so stylishly in spite of your podial deficit. It can't be easy birching boys when you have a stump instead of a right leg. Flagellators has done splendidly on the sports field and you have succeeded in keeping homosexual pashing to a minimum via a judicious mixture of discipline and bromide in the boys’ tea. However, on the academic side, I am very disappointed my dear Captain. I have been obliged to thrash a larger number of Flagellator lads for failing exams this year than all the other houses put together! I fear that your excessive use of the pillories and ducking stool for minor offences may have prevented some of your pupils from doing their prep, although it is always a joy to see old traditions maintained so lovingly. I have also been informed by a very reliable source that some of the insolent little rats in your house have nicknamed you “Old Pegleg”, hardly a suitable soubriquet for a future High Master, I feel. In spite of the fact that you are related by blood to my illustrious predecessor, Sir Edmund Lasher, the cruellest teacher in English pedagogical history who, sadly, had to be locked up for his own safety, I must reject your claim to the High Mastership of Whippingham College.’
  ‘I can take rejection like a man, High Master!’
  ‘Shut your mouth, you cripple.’

  ‘The fourth candidate to be eliminated is my dear friend Dr Crucifix of Disembowellers, one of our most venerable and historic houses. The skill you showed in accommodating Crown Prince Bongowongo as a pupil was considerable and the College thanks you for it. Even though the Prince was eventually revealed as a cannibal and the whole affair turned into a fucking great disaster, we still managed to escape without too much discredit. Additionally I have no complaints whatsoever about discipline at Disembowellers House, and your academic and sporting attainments are also good. But I must be practical. Let us face facts. You are, through no fault of your own, a goddamned midget. The great office of High Master at Whippingham College needs a man of stature, both mental and physical, so being a virtual gnome is a disadvantage. When I realised you would need to stand on a pile of books or, God help us all, on an orange box, to deliver High Master’s speeches to the College, and when I heard from the same reliable source the terrible rumour that you are referred to as the “Poison Dwarf” by many of the cheekier lads, I sadly had to rule you out.’ Dr Seiss-Urquart smiled benignly as tears rolled down Dr Crucifix's cheeks, making his mascara run.

  The three remaining candidates, Prof. Drawblood of Birchington House, the Reverend Psaydysste-Streke of Thrashmore Hall and Mr Elgar of Mosley Hall took nervous sips of their amontillados and waited for the momentous news to come. Reginald Elgar was feeling pleased with the way the High Master had taken note of his skilful rumour-mongering; and he smiled to see that, although Miss Spankington’s shorthand was keeping a careful record of every word uttered by the great pedagogue, she unavoidably blinked frequently as her black eye obviously still hurt. Her hero, the renowned Dr Seiss-Urquart (whom she had sucked off so many times) resumed his peroration, his speech not at all slurred by the truly enormous amounts of sherry he had imbibed.

  ‘Since we have come to the matter of stature, let me move on to Professor Drawblood. No one could say the Professor is not a big enough man to fill the post of High Master. Mr Drawblood towers over all of us; in fact he is a giant among men. Birchington’s record of discipline is excellent and the Professor is a frequent winner of the inter-house caning league.’ Here, the High Master introduced a note of sadness into his voice, ‘I initially envisaged that Professor Drawblood would be my successor in the High Master’s palatial lodgings here, but I regretfully have had to amend my initial views.’
  ‘High Master, I don’t understand,’ protested Drawblood.
  ‘You don’t understand? You don’t understand?’ roared Seiss-Urquart, pulling a well-thumbed anonymous letter from his pocket and thrusting it before Drawblood’s horrified face. ‘You form a sordid sodomitic liaison with one of the better-looking lads in your charge, you promote him, a relatively junior boy, to be your Head Prefect and you are now going on a fucking camping holiday with him over the Summer hols to the fucking Greek Islands and you don’t fucking understand why you will not be my fucking successor? You must be fucking deranged, Drawblood!’
  ‘Sorry about that, High Master, but Clitheroe-Wellington is a very tasty piece of male meat.’
  ‘Shut your gob, you queer!’ yelled the good doctor in a moment of abandon.
  ‘Pervert,’ commented the Very Reverend Adolphus Samuel Psaydysste-Streke, barely under his breath, as he saw his greatest rival for the High Mastership dropped completely into the shite. He was, however, surprised to see a quietly confident look on the only remaining contender, the jumped-up woodwork teacher, Elgar. Psaydysste-Streke had mixed feelings about Reginald Elgar, his natural scorn for the latter’s inadequate education being tempered by the fact that Elgar had shown a great interest in his own incredible collection of instruments of mediaeval torture recently.

  ‘Talking of perverts, we must now turn to you, Mr Psaydysste-Streke. Your record at Thrashmore Hall is, on the surface, exemplary. Thrashers has the best academic record, the lowest exam failures, the best results in the inter-house nude wrestling and rugby and you have curtailed the worst excesses of raging testosterone among your boys. For some time I have regarded you as a strong potential contender for the ultimate prize in English education, the High Mastership of our glorious institution.’
  ‘Thank you High Master for those kind words, but what did you mean by “on the surface”, may I ask?’
  ‘You may ask, Mr Psaydysste-Streke, and I shall tell you forthwith. So pin back your ears. I received a most interesting anonymous letter only last week which alerted me to your interest in violent torture and extreme pain. As a result, I have spoken to several of your prefects and they tell me that the boys in your house live lives of squalor and terror. I have learned of your underground torture chambers, of boys being forced to apply the thumbscrews to each other, even of the use of the stretching rack, the Iron Maiden and the 17th Century Malayan Pirates’ Crushing Boot! I have also been told of boys being put on bread and water for a month and of days of sleep deprivation for being late for roll-call. I would no more appoint you my successor than I would appoint a filthy queer like Professor Drawblood here!’
  ‘I say, steady on Dr Seiss-Urquart,’ interjected the homosexual giant.
  ‘Shut your gob, you pederast,’ snapped the good Doctor.
  ‘Certainly, High Master, anything you say.’

  ‘I may sometimes be over-judicious in punishment terms, High Master,’ responded the vicious head of Thrashmore Hall hysterically, ‘but you should not listen to old women’s gossip…’
  ‘Be silent sir! Shut your cake-hole!’
  ‘…And by eliminating me, you are left with Elgar here. Surely you cannot consider appointing him as High Master?’
  ‘For the last time, you sadistic swine, shut it! You are fucking tempting fate, you evil cunt!’
  ‘…I really must object…Mr Elgar is my intellectual inferior! I am the obvious choice to be the next High Master of Whippingham. I tower over all these creeps, a load of midgets, cripples, weaklings and dirty homos…’
  ‘That’s it!’ yelled Dr Seiss-Urquart. ‘I warned you not to dare to interrupt me! And how dare you malign your colleagues. That is my prerogative, not yours! Now you will pay the fucking price, by Christ! I hereby sentence you to a Communal Housemasters’ Flogging! Six strokes from each of us with the Black Mambo! Forty-two strokes in all!’
  ‘With the Black Mambo?’ chorused the six other housemasters in joy, their surprise at the turn of events being replaced with elation at being permitted to wield the finest cane in all of England, and on the arse of their least popular colleague, a rare bonus.
  ‘I can’t recall a Communal Housemasters’ Flogging in the past twenty years,’ remarked Captain Lasher, V.C., the cat-rescuing hero. ‘I shall enjoy this, by Jesus.’

  ‘You bastards would not dare to use the Black Mambo on me,’ blustered Psaydysste-Streke. But a glance round the table at the happy house masters told him otherwise. The bastards were totally up for it.
  ‘Miss Spankington, please do not minute the last few remarks and please leave the room whilst I and my colleagues thrash the Reverend according to my commandment.’
  ‘Do let me stay and watch, Septimus,’ Miss Spankington begged, drooling slightly.
  ‘No, it would be unseemly, as we shall be thrashing him on his bare arse and he might well shit himself in terror,’ explained the great pedagogue kindly, escorting her firmly out of the room, adding in a whisper, ‘But I’ll arrange the whipping stool so you can see everything through the keyhole.’
  ‘Thank you my beloved, you are very good to me,’ she simpered femininely. ‘You can be sure of a top class gobble later, dear.’

  And so the Very Reverend Samuel Psaydysste-Streke’s pin-striped trousers were torn off him and the unspeakably vicious house master of Thrashmore Hall was tied down over the Ceremonial College Whipping Stool. Mr Reginald Elgar wisely jammed a wodge of blotting paper into the victim’s mouth to stifle some of the louder screams and then the beating began, once the High Master had decreed the order of batting. Dr Crucifix was accorded the first innings since his small stature limited the force he could apply and his weaker strokes would not have been felt so keenly at a later stage in the proceedings. Next came Dr Doom and Captain “Pegleg” Lasher, V.C. Mr De’Ath had his caning privileges restored in order to allow him to bat fourth, and he gave the agonised Reverend six beautifully aimed blows on his bony butts. De’Ath had been keeping his eye in during the period of his suspension from caning by thrashing to death any small animals he caught on his midnight walks through the village to peep through the windows of the houses, hoping to see a bit of peasant sex-action. The other masters applauded his restored thrashing abilities enthusiastically.
  ‘Well done, De’Ath old bean, that last stroke was a fucking beauty!’ chirped Elgar.

  Then it was the turn of the seven foot three tall Professor Drawblood. Since the Professor had wrongly assumed that it was Psaydysste-Streke who had written the anonymous letter exposing his pash with young Clitheroe-Wellington, thus depriving him of the High Mastership, he wielded the Black Mambo with unprecedented force. The others watched in something approaching horror as the ginger giant raced repeatedly across the room, cane held high to deliver a series of stupendous blows, each within a eighth of an inch of each other. Blood flowed copiously and the culprit’s trousers were laid on the carpet to protect it from stains, both blood and faecal.
  ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhh,’ moaned the Reverend deliriously through his vomit-soaked blotting-paper gag.

  The Master of Mosley Hall, Mr Reginald Elgar (Bachelor of Woodwork), took pity on the hapless victim and, with the kind permission of the High Master, opted for a different target: the upper thighs. He hacked them to shreds with consummate caning skill. The final six strokes from the Black Mambo were delivered by Dr Seiss-Urquart on the victim’s bleeding arse with his usual style and aplomb, all six being sited exactly along the crevice between lower buttock and upper thigh, so completing a perfect beating pattern.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen. A fine thrashing indeed. I hope you all enjoyed the experience of using the Black Mambo!’
  ‘A truly magnificent cane, High Master!’
  ‘Perfect balance, High Master!’
  ‘A gem of the canemakers’ art, High Master!’
  ‘Hear, hear!’
  ‘Fantastic!’
  ‘A moving experience, High Master!’
  ‘Ugggggghhh! Aggggghh!’ moaned the Very Reverend Samuel Psaydysste-Streke through his gag, as his heart finally gave out.

  The High Master ushered the others back to the table, invited them to partake of yet another refreshing glass of sherry and resumed the meeting as though nothing untoward had disturbed his speech. Miss Spankington, quivering slightly with excitement after what she had witnessed through the keyhole, naturally rejoined the company, once Psaydysste-Streke’s prone body had been covered with a sheet. She brought with her a fresh decanter of the 1923 Tio San Pedro Gran Bodega Amontillado and helped herself to a large measure.

  ‘Therefore, my dear colleagues,’ continued the High Master, ‘You will see that I have decided that Mr Elgar here is to be the new High Master of Whippingham. I realise that this may seem an unusual choice to some of you, bearing in mind most of you regard him as a common dimwit. But may I remind you what an excellent job he has done in stamping out neo-nazism in his house – indeed Mosley Hall is now the most patriotic of all our houses. I am always gratified to hear the strains of “There’ll always be an England” wafting out of the windows. And he has brought honour to the College by winning for us the All-England Public Schools’ Woodwork and Fretwork Challenge Cup for the very first time.’ At this there were one or two cautiously exchanged nods of heads. ‘One potential problem is, of course, Mr Elgar’s lowly degree. It is traditional that the High Master of Whippingham should hold a doctorate, and Mr Elgar only holds the despicably woeful Bachelor of Woodwork degree from a tenth-rate Oxford college. However, Miss Spankington has some good news on that score.’ He invited his delectable fiancée to speak.

  ‘High Master, High Master elect, gentlemen, once it became clear that Mr Elgar would be elevated to the High Mastership, I contacted King Bongo, who you will recall is the esteemed Pater of our former Royal Pupil, Crown Prince Bongowongo, who enjoyed the intellectual atmosphere of Disembowellers under Dr Crucifix’s wise guidance until his cannibalistic retinue started slaughtering pupils left, right and centre to sate their hunger. In recognition of the fact that we managed to prevent the police from prosecuting his son for conspiracy to murder, His Majesty King Bongo XXV of Bongobongoland has graciously ordered the University of Bongobongoland to confer an Honorary Doctorate of Philosophy on Mr Elgar. The academic rig-out for a D.Phil from that esteemed centre of learning is really rather special.’

  And she produced from a rather battered cardboard box a bright purple mortar board and a deep yellow academic gown, decorated with matching purple ostrich feathers. Handing them to Mr Elgar (who donned them eagerly), she announced to the assembly, ‘High Master, gentlemen, behold the High Master Elect of Whippingham, Dr Reginald Elgar, Ph.D.(Bongobongo), Bachelor of Woodwork (Oxon.). The fifty guinea fee for the doctorate will be deducted from the new High Master’s stipend over the coming months, as has been agreed with the Bursar, our dear colleague Mr Grasper.’

  A round of spontaneous applause broke out and it was indeed unfortunate that Mr Psaydysste-Streke’s body fell off the Ceremonial College Whipping Stool at that juncture. It was only then that the group realised that the house master of Thrashmore Hall had passed away as a result of the terrible pummelling he had received from the manly wielders of the Black Mambo. This put a bit of a damper on the celebrations as everyone knew it meant another hefty bribe to the village medic, Dr Jones (a venial little Welsh drunkard with the county’s most repellent facial acne) to sign off the corpse as yet another unexplained cardiac arrest.

    ‘Good news for my old friend, Mr Tawn-Sphincter, though,’ observed Dr Crucifix. ‘He now gets promoted to be head of Thrashmore, now that the old beast Psaydysste-Streke is belly up, even though he is tragically doubly incontinent and wears a colostomy bag at both ends. I must see if he’ll sell me the Iron Maiden, as using it on the boys would be too exciting for his bowel control, I fear.’
  ‘And I could put Psaydysste-Streke’s thumbscrews to good use myself,’ confided Colonel Doom, as Miss Spankington swept in with a plateful of celebratory tapas and another bottle of the High Master’s exquisite vintage Amontillado.

    ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, I am overcome with emotion,’ cried Reginald Elgar. ‘And I feel I must offer you an explanation as to why I have languished in obscurity for so long, without a decent double-barrelled name to my credit. What I have to tell you will shock you titless! I am sure you have all heard of Viscount Jasper Payne-Bryngger of Payne-Bryngger Manor...’
  ‘You mean the cruellest and most oppressive mine owner in English history?’ queried Dr Crucifix.
  ‘The man who drowned three hundred men by flooding one of his mines rather than discuss a wage claim?’ asked Professor Drawblood.
  ‘... and also of his brother, Field-Marshal Lord Roger Payne-Bryngger...’ continued Reginald.
  ‘You mean the infamous multiple rapist who was the last nobleman to be beheaded at Tower Hill for his numberless rapes and murders?’ asked Mr De'Ath.
  ‘The man who ordered his troops to screw the dead bodies of their slaughtered foes at the Somme and who personally shot fifty who refused?’ gasped Captain Lasher V.C. in boundless admiration.
  ‘... not many people know this, but Viscount Jasper and Lord Roger had a half-brother, Sir Reginald Payne-Bryngger. He slightly abused his position in society by shagging every single female aged between fourteen and eighty on the estate, including my late dear mother, Mrs Audrey Elgar, a fat and hideous widow, who happened to be assistant cook in the kitchens at Payne-Bryngger Manor in those golden days of Edwardian gentility.’
  ‘You mean to say you are the bastard son of nobility?’ gasped Colonel Doom, severely impressed.
  ‘Yes, my full name is the Honourable Reginald Elgar-Payne-Bryngger, and I shall use that name as High Master of Whippingham College.’
  ‘It's sure to impress the parents of potential pupils,’ murmured Miss Spankington.

  ‘You know, Cynthia,’ Seiss-Urquart whispered into Miss Spankington’s ear, as he felt her hand groping his engorged privates under the table, ‘I truly feel Dr Elgar is an inspired choice as High Master. His unique combo of cunning, cruelty, hypocrisy and illegitimate nobility will stand him in good stead in the years to come.’
  ‘Yes, Septimus, he really is a total and utter cunt, and is thus your worthy successor.’
  ‘His anonymous notes to me were really most helpful, you know.’
  ‘Especially since he signed them.’
  ‘That was the inspired touch which revealed to me his aptitude for the fucking job, my beloved.’
  ‘Oh God, I love it when you talk dirty, Septimus.’

  The outgoing High Master rose to his feet, reeling only very slightly as a result of having downed three full bottles of vintage Amontillado and proposed a toast, ‘Raise your glasses, my dear colleagues, to our new High Master, Dr the Hon. Reginald Elgar-Payne-Bryngger of Payne-Bryngger Manor, Doctor of Philosophy of the University of Bongobongoland and Bachelor of Woodwork of Mansfield College in the University of Oxford! I commend our dear College into your keeping and, I bequeath you the Black Mambo! May you enjoy many happy years of thrashing learning into English lads by the only viable route, the naked prostrate arse.’
  ‘To Reg and the Black Mambo!’ chorused the new High Master's over-awed colleagues as they knocked back their glasses of Dr Seiss-Urquart's exquisite sherry.

  And thus another glorious chapter in the history of Whippingham College, the strictest, cruellest, most traditional and most patriotic of all English public schools, drew to a close as the Honourable Reginald Elgar-Payne-Bryngger strutted around in his fine new yellow academic gown (complete with African tribal feathers), flailing the 42-inch Black Mambo around him in a drunken stupor, whilst ancient Bogthorpe, the mentally defective hunchback janitor and stoker, dragged out the faeces-stained, multi-striped body of the Reverend Psaydssyte-Streke in order to clean him up a bit before the village medic, the repellently scabby little Welsh git, Dr Myfanwy Jones, could certify his demise as yet another tragic case of death by natural causes in the annals of upper-class English academia.

Vivat Whippingham! Vivat! Vivat! Vivat! Vivat the Hon. Reg.!