Memories: ‘Regular floggings and pummellings were compulsory’

My parents were always heartened to hear about the beatings I received. They were not cissies. When I started at my grammar school, they encouraged new teachers to administer whackings whenever they felt inclined, not that my teachers needed encouragement. Regular floggings and pummellings were compulsory. – Journalist David Bowker recalls his schooldays in the Guardian, 26 October 1988.

Nor was physical punishment exclusively reserved for those who misbehaved. Our deputy head, was an awesome individual. His face was covered in scars which according to school legend had been acquired during his previous career as a Hell’s Angel. During French lessons he had the unnerving habit of standing behind any schoolboy he chose to interrogate. “Bowker, ou est Jean Paul?” he would silkily enquire. “Dans le Jardin” “Correct!” he would bark, slapping me across the head with prodigious force. One had to admire his style.

Other masters were less original. The physics teacher was a born-again Christian who caned sinners with evangelical zeal. Once before giving me “the whack” he actually said: “This is going to hurt me more than you.” He was lying. I've never known a master who derived greater pleasure from doling out corporal punishment.

Yet some members of staff found caning a tedious formality. The PE teacher, never questioned the morality of it. He used to slipper me regularly for consistently failing to produce my gym kit. He was a rugby player with biceps like beach balls, but his blows were feeble. Poor man. His heart just wasn't in it.

My most painful beating was as a result of a dare. There was a stockroom attached to the biology laboratory. There they stored straw for the hapless rats. A friend bet me that I wouldn’t pee in the straw. I accepted the dare but was caught in mid-flow by an understandably astonished teacher. “What in God’s name are you doing?” he demanded. “Don't worry, Sir, the rats aren't in the straw,” I replied.

He broke a strip of splintered wood across my bum. It was so pathetic and his aim was so wide of the mark that I unwisely sniggered. Then he tried his luck with a metal ruler. That soon shut me up.

My last whacking was the most memorable, as the man wielding the rod was none other than Ronnie, our ancient and esteemed headmaster. During the final assembly of my fifth year, Ronnie gave his customary speech for school leavers, something about “entering the wide world”. I decided to ease the boredom by engaging in a gentle shoulder punching contest with the boy next to me.

Ronnie took exception to this and invited us to his study after assembly. This was genuinely a case of a caning hurting a teacher more than a pupil. Ronnie’s thrashing arm had seen better days and we were hard pressed not to laugh openly at the weediness of his whacking. His face went blood-red and he looked like he was going to have a heart attack. Had we enjoyed his confidence we would surely have sat him down and made him a cup of calming tea.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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