School memories: A trip down the detention-laden memory lane

It’s been some time since I left school. Not quite in disgrace, but not exactly covered in glory either. Did my school “career” leave a lasting impression on me? Sure, it did, but only until the flesh wounds inflicted by a sadist wielding a teaching diploma and a bamboo cane had healed.

I hadn’t given much thought to those days since walking through the school gates for the last time and tossing my basher under a bus. This stupid straw hat had been repeatedly repaired with fibreglass and resin left over from ding repairs on my surfboard.

Its brim was rock hard and, had Peaky Blinders been a thing back then, I might have used it to inflict GBH on my opponents.

Some remember them as classmates. I remember them as mortal enemies.

Which is why I was deeply suspicious upon receiving a message from “Dave” a couple of weeks ago, claiming he had exciting news for me. The only e-mails I get like that are from our Nigerian brethren. But there were no spelling mistakes. No mention of Jesus.

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“You have been nominated by the Old Boys Committee and the Knights to be the recipient of the Circle of Valour Award 2024 for the category of Arts, Music and Culture.” By the who for the what? It seemed highly unlikely.

My headmaster – it could’ve been MacFarquhar or Wilkinson – once said I’d never amount to anything, before flaying my trembling buttocks.

My academic record is second only to my police record in terms of displaying a wilful lack of adherence to regulations and a general abhorrence of discipline.

Was this a cruel joke? Apparently not. I was indeed being recognised, which was ironic since I’d spent years writing under a pseudonym and avoiding recognition at all costs.

According to the school’s website, “An award winner will be recognised for his achievements at the highest level since leaving school. He will have achieved iconic status in his particular field of expertise and the community of North Durban.”

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Iconic status? I was convinced they’d got the wrong person. Were there no other nominations? I could barely remember having gone to school at all. It doesn’t even have the same name as when I was there, having merged with a rival institution in 1990.

Dave congratulated me and invited me to attend the dinner and awards ceremony. It happens tomorrow evening, by the way, so you’d better hurry if you want tickets to see me not collect my award.

I explained to Dave that I would be in Paris at the time in hot pursuit of a beautiful woman who caught my eye 28 years ago.

Dave wasn’t thrilled. He seemed to think the Circle of Valour Award was more important than shenanigans in the City of Love. Neither opportunity was likely to come around again so I gave it serious thought and, not for the first time, my little brain bullied my big brain and shenanigans won by a fair margin.

Faced with the daunting prospect of having to find another alumnus who might’ve vaguely done something memorable in arts, music and culture, Dave relented and asked me to come up with the name of someone who could collect the award “in a sober state” on my behalf.

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The event was scheduled to start at 6.30pm and I didn’t know anyone who might be entirely sober at that time. All my friends are somehow involved in arts, music, culture or surfing, which require substance abuse at unpredictable times.

Then it struck me. My lawyer, Syd “Vicious” Taverner. He doesn’t often take my calls but I suspected that unfettered access to potentially wealthy clients and free wine might pique his interest. I was right. He almost pulled out when I told him the dress code was formal.

The only suit he cares about is a lawsuit. I assured him that his grotesque sense of humour would almost certainly spark a brawl, with lucrative legal action guaranteed.

All that remained was for me to come up with a few anecdotes of my own for a clip filmed by the beautiful woman on the banks of the Seine. Memories of school were in desperately short supply. I remember my drum being taken away from me after two days in the school cadet band.

I remember the detentions and the beatings. And also, the terrible reports, but only because my mother kept them, apart from the one from matric, which I think she burnt.

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“A boy with lots of ability who is too lazy and too lacking in interest to make use of it. Good at English with a wide general knowledge. Careless in arithmetic. Always lolling in class, rarely sits up properly.”

Another year brought a litany of abuse. “General science: Could do better. Maths: Adopts a negative attitude. History: A very poor result. Geography: Extremely weak. Geometrical drawing: More effort required. Afrikaans: Moet harder werk.” Whatever that means.

Hoping to help jolt happier memories, I turned to my old classmate Steve Olivier. He has a frighteningly clear recollection of our time at St Bastards, which probably explains why he’s a professor and principal of a Scottish university today and I’m, well, me.

Be that as it may. With this award, I become a lifetime member of the Knights, an elite Old Boys’ association.

Arise, Sir Ben. Just as long as it’s not before midday.

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