Dave Cameron's Schooldays

William Coles

Description

'A cracking read... Perfectly paced and brilliantly written, Coles draws you in, leaving a childish smile on your face.' News of the World

'This is a charming and uplifting book.' Piers Morgan

This is the extraordinary first-hand account of Tory leader David Cameron's Eton Schooldays. In this cracking yarn, which also happens to be entirely fictional, veteran journalist Bill Coles reveals how Cameron's first year at Eton College helped turn him into one of the wiliest political operators of his age. These spoof memoirs include revelatory details of Cameron's early life as a porn-dealer and paparazzo. The novel may perhaps contain valuable insights into the mind of the man who is on the threshold of becoming the first Old Etonian Prime Minister in more than four decades.

Sujets

• Humorous
• Coming of Age
• David Cameron
• Eton
• Fiction
• Satire

Informations

• Publié par: Legend Press
• Date de parution: 27 mars 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781907756177
• Langue: English

Extrait

Legend Press Ltd, 2 London Wall Buildings, London EC2M 5UU info legend-paperbooks.co.uk www.legendpress.co.uk
Contents Bill Coles 2010
The right of the above author to be identified as the author of this work has be asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.
ISBN 978-1-9074611-7-0
Set in Times Printed by JF Print Ltd., Sparkford.
Cover designed by Tim Bremner Illustration by: Alan McGowan
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Acknowledgements
Dave Cameron s Schooldays is entirely a work of fiction by journalist Bill Coles. Although David Cameron did indeed go to Eton College in the Michaelmas term of 1979, all of the events and characters in this satire have been invented. Any resemblance between Cameron s extraordinary cast of characters and his real-life associates is entirely coincidental. It should also be noted that although this novel gives a good flavour of Eton life at the time, some slight liberties have been taken with a few of the school s more colourful details.

For Toby, my brother
Chapter 1
Spread evenly over my backside are four white stripes, each of them about six inches long. Sometimes when I come out of the shower, I catch a glimpse of those stripes in the mirror. The scars are slightly discoloured now, like old war wounds.
Those stripes are a memento of my education at Eton. I earned them within my first few days at the school, and the caning was so severe that I needed a full fortnight of treatment before the wounds had even begun to heal. But what a treatment! What a nurse! She alone was worth every second of the agony.
When I see those stripes today, they evoke so many memories for me. I only have to close my eyes and I can almost taste the leather belt being stuffed into my mouth; can feel my arms being pinned down to the table; the sound of running footsteps before I hear this very odd noise - like a wet fish being slapped onto a slab. Then, a tingling in my bottom that quickly grows to the most burning throb. Each stroke is counted off and, at the end of it all, the dismal offer of a handshake to show that I have taken my beating like a gentleman.
That was the manner in which I came by those stripes, and there has not been one single girlfriend who has not gasped in amazement when she s seen them. How they loved to hear the story of that caning; none of them could ever quite believe that sort of barbarity was still occurring at Eton in 1979. But it was, indeed it was, and my scars are the living proof of it.
The caning though was only the start of it. For what then followed in my first year at Eton was some of the most systematic bullying that a 14 year old boy has ever been subjected to. At least Tom Brown, during his legendary schooldays, only had Flashman to contend with. For myself, it sometimes felt like almost every senior boy in the house was intent on grinding me into the dust.
But I would not change it; would not change a single moment from my first year at school. For although the caning and all that came after it were beyond horrific, they were to set into motion the most extraordinary chain of events. And who knows where that chain will lead me - with luck and a following wind, I may even be in 10 Downing Street before my 45th birthday.
So this story is an explanation of how I became a Conservative. For the truth is that when I arrived at Eton as a callow 14-year-old, I could not have cared one jot for the Tories.
Most people tend to think that, because I m from a family of blue-bloods, I ve always been a Conservative. But this was not the case. And, as for politics itself, I cannot recall a single subject in my curriculum that was quite so monumentally tedious as political science . As far as I was concerned the whole of Westminster could have drowned in its own ordure: I detested the lot of them.
What a sea-change I was to undergo. By the end of my first year, I had become the most diehard Conservative that you ve ever met; Christ, I must have been insufferable. There s nothing on God s earth that s quite so repellent as a young Conservative who s seen the light.
And the catalyst was that first caning when I was to experience the most savage pain that had ever been inflicted on me. So: a brutal caning helps turn an Etonian into a Tory - who ever would have thought it?
Chapter 2
Mind you, at least my first caning was only witnessed by a handful of people - unlike the poor old School Dunces .
This was the formal name for now how can I put this politely, since I know that at least one junior Royal has borne the title? The School Dunces, as they were formally known, were basically the thickest boys in Eton. The title was awarded each year to the ten boys who had achieved the worst O-Level results during the previous summer s exams.
I d heard all about it - and was greatly looking forward to the show. It was like they were putting on a special circus just to make us all feel welcome. All the new boys filed into Upper School, gawking about us at the busts of the old boys on the wall. Quite a few Prime Ministers up there too, you know - 18 as I remember it, but fingers crossed that figure may imminently need some slight amendment.
All the new boys - the F-tits as we were known because we were all Effing useless - were dressed up in jacket and tie. Behind us were well over a hundred Beaks, including the unmistakable bald dome of my Tutor, Tam Maguire. They were drumming their feet in unison as the Senior Master downed a yard of Theakston s Old Peculier. The Headman, togged up in gown and mortarboard, came on to give some dreary speech. But he knew - and we knew - that he was only the warm-up act. We couldn t wait!
Finally, he drifted to an end and bawled those four memorable words that have been declaimed at the Thrashing of the Dunces for nigh on 400 years: Pour encourager les autres ! [ To encourage the others! Voltaire pinched the line for Candide .]
The ten Dunces, dressed up in Eton tails, were escorted the length of Upper School by four gnarled Watchmen. What an extraordinary snapshot of Eton life: some proud, some cocky, some even with carefree smiles on their faces. But the one that I particularly noted was the tail-end Charlie, who was white and shivering with terror; even then I thought that he was putting on a pretty poor show. It was only a bloody beating, after all.
I wormed my way through to the front to get a good view of the flogging. The Eton beating block, black with age, was brought onto the stage. The electric frisson rippled through the assembled new boys as we let out a collective gasp! Coo-eee!
One by one the Dunces were led onto the podium. They would be offered the choice of the Wad or the Bullet - of which more later - and would adopt the position, bending over the block. I was fascinated.
I had seen many beatings before at my prep school, but nothing to touch the wonderful stoicism of those 16-year-old Etonians.
All save the last. He had been getting more and more nervous as the nine other Dunces were thrashed in front of him. When it came to his turn, he was wriggling like a ferret. The Watch had no option but to hold him - actually hold him! - down on the block. The ignominy of it. He was screaming so much that they just shoved the Wad straight into his mouth.
The Caner selected a fresh cane from the rack and gave it a few practice swishes in the air. Oooo! we all cried. This was going to be fun.
Tails up! called the Keeper of the Watch, and the terrified Dunce s tails were flicked over his head. The Caner counted off his paces along the rostrum, like a bowler measuring his run-up. After a nod from the Keeper of the Watch, he turned, took six smart steps and delivered the most thundering crack to the Dunce s bottom. I was there, right up close to him. It looked like his bulging eyes were going to pop out of his head. One! cried the Keeper of the Watch.
Six blows he had in all and by the end you could practically see the steam coming off his trousers.
I can see blood! squeaked one boy.
He s blubbing! squealed another.
The Dunce shook the Caner s hand but - shamefully - did not even thank the man for his pains.
What an introduction to Eton. Talk about living history! There it all was, being acted out right in front of our very eyes. As we wandered back to our houses, even the narkiest new boys were beginning to appreciate the awesome spectacle they had just experienced.
My Tutor Tam Maguire was all eagerness to discuss the thrashing when he visited my room in Farrer House that evening.
Now, as Maguire has some small bearing on my story, I suppose I should give him the benefit of a little descriptive detail. He shaved his head every morning and was as bald as an egg. He liked to tell us that his pasty white pate shone with the light of the wisdom of the ages , though for myself I always thought he looked like a skinhead at a funeral, having somehow managed to strap himself into a dark suit, wingcollar and white bowtie.
Because Maguire had no hair, his head never changed from one year to the next. If he d had a bit of botox, he d have