Hogwarts and all

JK Rowling has a lot to answer for. If a recent survey is to be believed, the brains behind Harry Potter and Hogwarts is single-handedly responsible for convincing the vast majority of her predominantly young readership that boarding school is fun. Hear me now, kids, when I tell you that nothing could be further from the truth. How do I know this? Been there, done that, got the wedgie.

Make your way to the Cistercian College, a couple of miles the Birr side of Roscrea. Hanging from the wall inside the vast front parlour on the left hand side are two plaques displaying the names of every student to have won the CCR Silver and Gold Medal Public Speaking Competitions throughout the school’s long history. See 1989 and 1991 respectively? That’s me, that is.

I remember my first day at CCR like it was the 4th of September 1986. I’d read the Enid Blyton books and knew what to expect: midnight feasts, jolly hockey sticks, tuck shops full of goodies and kindly middle-aged matrons with rosy red cheeks, starched white aprons and bosoms that were more plump and maternal than curvy and sexy.

What I wasn’t prepared for was rampant bullying on all levels, gross gastronomic encounters of the turd kind, psychotic monks who considered acts of GBH to be an occupational perk, several very fine teachers without whose influence I would not be writing this column, and a couple of dingbat nazis who honestly believed themselves to be part of some sort of pedagogic master-race just because they were employed by a private boarding school where being found in possession of a copy of hotpress was considered a breach of the Rule 4 (i) concerning “the dissemination of pornographic literature.”.

Now, in case you think I’m whining, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Indeed, I shudder to think how much more unctuous and sniveling an individual I’d have turned out to be if I hadn’t been subjected to a reign of emotional and physical terror by one particular gang of senior students in my early teens. Not content with stealing my money and fags every day, they regularly beat seven shades of shit out of me for their own amusement before flushing my head down the toilet and laughing at the good of it.

And then there were the bad times: learning to roll cigarettes in one hand and bet on horses while breathing the same air as 300 teenage boys all furtively masturbating over Wendy James, Tiffany and our substitute chemistry teacher (who I would love to, eh, get in touch with if you happen to be reading this, Miss).

But while boarding school didn’t do me much harm, I saw it break other lads my age. They should never have been there and left persecuted and mentally traumatised for no crime more heinous than being ill-equipped with the social skills necessary to endure a draconian regime governed by bells, keys and a cruel all male environment with no interaction of any kind with girls our own age. Except Tiffany.

The rest of us made the best of it and several – including one good friend for whom I’ll be acting as groomsman for in a few months – absolutely loved it. I guess one man’s bigoted, theological, despotic, sperm-soaked, autocratic gulag is another man’s Butlins.

My abiding memory, however, is the smell. That awful smell will haunt me to the grave. Think generation after generation of burnt food, disinfectant, sweat, piss, shit and socks… it was disgusting.

After the Leaving Cert, we had the Sixth Year Dinner. One of many annual traditions, it was the last time everybody in our year assembled in the same room. Custom dictated that after the meal, anyone who wanted to could say a few words about their time in CCR. As nominated compere, it was my job to roast each person on the list before inviting them to say their piece. As bloke after bloke stood up and recalled their fondest memories before saying their emotional goodbyes (we’d sneaked in some hooch), I was surprised to see one name in particular on the growing list of those who wished to speak.

He was a notoriously reluctant public speaker and everyone was agog he’d volunteered to say anything at all. Nevertheless, he got to his feet and after a shaky start, grew more and more confident as he churned out the usual auld guff: we were all a great bunch of lads, we’d had some good times and he’d miss the craic.

Then he leveled his gaze on the assembled college authorities at the top table and went through them for a short cut, telling them exactly what he thought of them, their attitudes and their school in no uncertain terms. As if that wasn’t impressive enough, he reserved the brunt of his ire for one particularly unpleasant teacher who, tragically, wasn’t there to hear it.

In a movie, that would have been our cue to stand on the tables, shout “Oh captain, my captain!” and converge en masse on the quad (every boarding school worth its salt has a quad) cheering triumphantly and carrying our hero shoulder high amid a flurry of waving fists.

As it happened, I seem to recall a very embarrassing silence interrupted only by a period of muffled giggling during which several very dirty looks were exchanged between assorted members of the staff and student bodies. Barely able to contain my mirth, I mumbled something totally unbecoming of such a landmark moment in the school’s history and introduced whatever poor sod it was who had to follow the unprecedented act of heroic defiance we had watched unfold.

Having lived with them more or less around the clock for five years, I often wonder what various lads I haven’t seen since are up to these days. Wherever they are and whatever they’re doing, I’ll bet any money they all remember two things: O’Hanlon’s speech and that awful smell.