If any of you were common perusers of the Mountbatten Midweekly (the primo paper of the greatest private school south of the Weald) then you’ll undoubtedly recognise your old friend Jonty Trent-Vandenburg from between the sultry sheets of the opinion column, where everyone’s favourite prefect/party animal waxed philosophical about the real issues affecting the general populace. These of course include the Waitrose meal deal price hike (good, keeps out the riff-raff) and the lack of varnish choice for the clay-pidgeon shotguns (bad, mahogany makes my pull crooked).
Those days are over, unfortunately, but my new degree in Traditional Politics & Financial Application has awarded me a veritable boatload of spare time in between lectures and debates – who knew university could be so simple! As such, I’ve decided to dedicate my ample talents to one of (no I will not abbreviate it) University College London’s fine and reputable publications. Funnily enough, I didn’t even need to submit anything! One of the editors heard me discussing The Repair Shop with a fellow AGA-owner outside the meeting and offered me the job on the spot.
So I’m currently speaking to you all in the master bathroom of the pool-house. Papa’s exiled me ‘like he did the French’ because I refused to sign up for the Rugger team. But why should I? God knows I had enough of that back at Mountbatten. The long games, the faraway matches, interacting with schools lower than us in the league tables – it’s just really not on. I mean, for Pete’s sake, how’s a fellow supposed to partake in an active social life?
One thing I shall miss, however, are the initiations. (Both giving and receiving, I should say!). There’s no better feeling than partaking in some deniably homo-erotic activities with a gaggle of burly compadres, positively quivering from the high of a post-match victory! (We had to drop the crack when our ‘dealer’ revealed he was a Labour supporter.) Plus, you really do get to know your teammates that little bit better. The knowledge of William’s birthmark in the shape of uncivilized Peru that nestles below his rump is now only shared by myself and his mother – a true bonding experience.
The match teas were nothing to be sniffed at either – literally, in some cases. Many of the so-called ‘schools’ we toured lacked basic shower features in their changing rooms, meaning the combined stench of the Mountbatten First XI nearly put the opposition off their finger sandwiches and crab rangoon. I say nearly, of course, because there were never any refreshments left after the two sides had swept through the Dining Hall. Partly due to the inescapable crushing feeling of being left out by your peers, and partly because the Help would have been allowed to eat our leftover Eaton Mess – and we can’t be having that, lest they develop a taste and decide to revolt like the people in Les Mis.
So it is with a heavy heart that I decided to forgo the delights of the oval ball and instead focus on loftier ambitions – scoring a trust fund blondie then retiring back to my ‘shag pad’, Thornberry View.
We’d have to stay in the pool-house, of course. I’m still grounded.
– Jonty Trent-Vandenburg
