Interview with a caning headmaster

A young newspaper reporter goes to interview a headmaster who has reintroduced caning in his school and soon finds himself touching his toes.

Mr A. Thwackery is the new headmaster at St Francis comprehensive which is the first school in Brocklehurst to reintroduce caning after the recent change in the law.

He has already got a supply of canes in and in the first week alone he beat seven boys – all of them seniors in the sixth-form. Mr Thwackery told me that he felt it was best to go first for the older boys as they were the trendsetters in the school. The younger boys look up to them and take their lead from them. Therefore, Mr Thwackery said, if they knew that the rules applied to them and if they broke the rules they would be punished they would know the rules applied to all.

“I had considered beating the boys in public before the whole school to impress upon everyone that things had changed, but I held back when I realized that this might create bad publicity.”

He meant that despite the landslide victory for the New Democrats party in last year’s election and tits clear manifesto pledge to bring back corporal punishment there were still some who disagreed with the move.

Most are behind corporal punishment and already it has been announced that the cane will be available for use on university and college students from the start of the new academic year. There are calls for it to be extended into the workplace with apprentices the main target.

Mr Thwackery told me, “St Francis used to be one of the best schools in Brocklehurst, indeed in the entire region. I have been looking back on the school records and see that corporal punishment was a regular feature of the school day.”

St Francis was an independent gramma school until the mid-seventies when with changes in the entire educational system it was forced to go comprehensive. “That meant it lost its elite status,” the present headmaster says. “I hope with the reintroduction of caning, we can revive some of those glory days.”

It might be helpful to you my reader if I told you that until two years ago I was a pupil at St Francis. When I tell the headmaster this, his eyes narrow and he leans across his desk. “And were you a model pupil?” his glare unnerves me and I confess that I did not work hard at my studies and as a result I didn’t get good enough exam results to take me to university. His eyes glare. “A slacker,” he says without humour. "You are the very type of boy who would benefit from the new regime. Six of the best, would soon concentrate your mind."

I have no answer for this but the headmaster has now become enthused. He stands and walks across his study “They used to call it an office,” he says proudly, “But I have renamed it the study. I also have brought back the academic gown and cap,” he adds pointing to the garments hanging on the coatstand in a corner of the study. It is only then that I notice there are also two whippy canes hanging by their curved handles from the same stand.

Mr Thwackery takes one down from the stand and hands it to me. I have never seen an authentic school cane before and am immediately struck by how light in weight it is. He picks up the other cane and flexes it between his hand. “See how supple it is,” he enthuses, “You have a go.” I bend the cane I am holding and find it easily makes a curve. I am afraid to go too far in case I break it. When I let go it springs back to almost its original position.

Mr Twackerey swishes his cane through the air, once and then again. It makes a swooshing sound as it goes and only now do I realise that these lightweight whippy canes have a lot of power. Mine is a little over a metre long and as thick as a pencil. It is a light brown, almost yellowy colour and has notches that have been smoothed down running along its length. “You have a swish,” Mr Thwackery encourages me. My heart is beating fast as I swipe the rod through the air.

“I am sure your readers would welcome a first-hand account of the cane in action,” Mr Thwackery’s thin lips set to a half smile. He is a tall man, much taller than myself and somewhere in his forties (by now I have lost the courage to ask him personal questions). In his lightweight business suit he makes an imposing figure in the centre of his study.

“A slacker here today would find himself touching his toes,” Mr Thwackery says narrowing his eyes as he looks at me and flexing the cane once more between his hands. He sees my discomfort and shows that he is deadly serious in his intent. “It might not be too late to save you,” he swishes the cane through the air. “I believe you are an apprentice at the Bugle,” he says a half smile forming on his face, “Before too long apprentices will be subjected to corporal punishment. You might find your editor will get himself a cane.”

He is not too subtle in his meaning. “Stand there,” he stands to a spot in the middle of the study. “You might like to know,” he says with some relish, “That there are no set rules about how to deliver a caning. So I am quite at liberty to require a boy to lower his trousers or even his underpants for a beating.”

He must have seen my face flush and my obvious growing discomfort. “But,” he reassures me, “I would only resort to that for second or subsequent offences. A caning across the seat of the trousers would be quite sufficient for the first offender,” he says.

I am too stunned to answer and I think he takes my silence for impertinence or insolence. “Then again,” he says, “in your case I might make an exception.” I blurt out something along the lines of: I am no longer a pupil at the school and don’t come under his jurisdiction.

He is undeterred, “You are a journalist,” he sneers the word “journalist” and continues, “wouldn’t you like to report to your readers what it actually feels like to have a headmaster’s caning. The cane was abolished by government in the mid-nineteen-eighties and hardly anyone today has personally experienced a beating.

By now my head is spinning and I am unsure what to say. He points his cane to a spot in front of his desk. “Bend over. Touch your toes.” I am convinced my mouth gaped and then closed and opened and I must have resembled a goldfish. I had no words. “Right there,” he pointed again in case I was so dull as not to have understood his command.

Seconds later I found myself stooped in front of him, stretching my fingers to reach my shoes. It was only then that bizarrely I realized I was wearing grey trousers and a white shirt and I might easily have been mistaken for a schoolboy in school uniform. I had no idea why I was submitting myself to him. Later I wondered if somehow I had been caught up in the moment; a powerful man dominating me.

I stood bent over, trousers tightly stretched across my bottom. I felt totally exposed. God alone knows what it feels like to be in this position with the trousers at the ankles, and heaven forbid the underpants at the knees. It might have felt surreal but we have to admit that soon there will be many students and apprentices my age presenting themselves in a similar position to be punished by professors or bosses for any number of misdemeanors. It is even true that my own editor might have me draped across his desk at some time in the future.

In other circumstances I would have simply stood, thanked the headmaster for his courtesy of speaking with me and left his study hurriedly. I admit I didn’t do this because I had become intrigued by the situation. What would an authentic headmaster’s caning feel like? Would I be able to stand it? After all generations of schoolboys until forty years ago were subjected to six-of-the-best; it had been a regular daily occurrence at St Francis back in the day. Surely if a boy back then could take a caning I – a twenty-year-old man – would too.

Also, there was some truth in the headmaster’s assertion that I should write for my readers what it feels like to be caned.

Let me try to give a blow-by-blow account. I stooped touching my toes. That is a harder position to adopt than you might think. I’m a fit man and play football regularly but I found it a strain on the calf muscles to stay in position. It helps to spread the legs somewhat. I wasn’t quite sure where to look. I had the choice to stare directly down at my shoes or to raise my head a little and look up at the desk. In the end I did neither since my eyes were closed very tight in anticipation of the pain I was to endure.

As I say I saw very little so I cannot report on how Mr Thwackery approached his task. I heard creaks in the floorboards that told me that he paced the study once or twice before taking up his position. The creaking stopped when he finally reached a spot somewhere to my left. I could hear heavy breathing. It was mind. He was close enough to me now to be able to rest the length of his cane across the fleshiest part of my buttocks. He tapped it once or twice and then drew it from left to right across my cheeks, rather as if he was sawing away at my bottom.

My body tensed, I had no control over this, it was a natural reflex action. I felt him lift the cane off my bottom and there was a pause that felt like forever but can’t have been more than a second or two. Then I heard a whistle followed by a resounding crack, this was the cane striking my backside. There was another second’s wait and then the most incredible pain I have ever experienced (and I have broken my leg playing football). A searing line of pain burnt across my buttocks, running from left to right. It was as if he had pushed a white-hot wire into my flesh. I gasped in response and shot up to a standing position clutching my buttocks with both hands as I hopped from foot to foot, I choked back the howl I desperately wanted to emit.

Mr Thwackery was not impressed. “Stop that tomfoolery at once,” he scolded, “That is just the first stroke, you have another five to come.” Another five! Why I didn’t flee the study I shall never know. “Bend over,” he said, “And if I have any more nonsense I’ll be awarding extra strokes.”

How I managed to resume the position, bent over, head low, bottom jutting out, I’ll never know. Had some long latent schoolboy instinct kicked in. Was I replicating the generations of schoolboys who had been caned in that very study. The code of honour must have been: bend over, take your punishment and get the hell out of there. The phrase “Take it like a man” comes to mind as I write this account.

I forced myself over, my whole body shaking. He tapped and he sawed the cane once more. It lifted away and returned with terrific force to fall a centimeter below the first. I now had a strip of burning agony running across my bottom. I could feel a throbbing welt beneath my underpants. Perspiration soaked my shirt and ran down from my temples. I choked back something in my throat that might have been vomit. With a superhuman effort I managed not to jump up, although my entire body wanted me to do so.

Mr Thwackery did not speak but I heard the floorboards creak as he paced the study. As he did this the agony in my backside began to ease to a dull pain. Just as it seemed to be dissolving into a throb Mr Thwackery took up his position and landed number three. It struck just above number one and I now had three throbbing welts running parallel. I have to hand it to Mr Thwackery he was proving to be a very expert caner.

My head throbbed as much as my backside (probably that is an exaggeration, but my head ached a lot.) He paced the study waiting for the pain to settle then landed number four. How I stayed bent over I do not know, but by now I had abandoned any attempt to decorously touch my toes with my fingertips, instead I gripped hold of my shins for dear life as this was the only way I could stop myself jumping to my feet.

Tears flowed down my face and I had to sniff back the snot that started to drip. Mr Thwackery paced again. I remember very little about the final strokes other than the intense pain they caused. He paced around the study as I waited for permission to rise. It seemed a long time coming. My bum felt like it had swollen to twice its natural size. My heartrate was off the scale and if I hadn’t been a fit man I might well have suffered a stroke.

At last he allowed me to stand. I wobbled, my head spun and it felt like I was not there in the study. It was some kind of out of body experience. I was floating on the ceiling looking down on this scene where the headmaster had just given the slacking sixth-former six of the best.

I rubbed my bottom vigourous and through damp eyes watched the headmaster replace the cane on the stand. “You might like to know,” he said with a broad smile, “That that was merely a headmaster’s caning, it was nowhere close to six-of-the-best,” and he emphasized the word “best”. “But should you like to experience such I would be happy to obliged should I be displeased with the article you write.”

He gave me a moment to calm down, shook me warmly by the hand and escorted me from the school premises. I had arrived on my bicycle but was in no fit state to ride it back to the office. Instead, I walked it home where I was able to inspect the damage. I had six very well-defined stripes across my backside, they had risen to wheals and although the pain had eased completely by this time, I could still reignite the pain if I touched my bottom. It made sitting down uncomfortable – but not impossible – for the rest of the day.

The marks lasted for several days and the bruises are still there, although they have transferred in colour from purple to an off yellow.

So, that is my account of my visit to Mr Thwackery the first headmaster in Brocklehurst to reintroduce the cane. If he summons me back after he reads this article, I’ll let you know.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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