Kostya

To occupy and amuse myself during the far too long Summer break, I have decided to compile a series of anecdotes of my high school years. Of course, I’m sure that most will find them tedious and will be unable to relate to the cultural specifics. I have decided not reveal the actual name of my school, since the many of scandals and intrigues I wish to write about have been well covered up by the administration, they were always big on salvaging the public image of the institution, thus I have decided to write is such that only someone who actually attended or taught there would recognise which school I am talking about. I have also decided to call everyone by their nickname, which is not an issue since there isn’t a school on the entire continent of Australia without a Robbo, a Blocka or a Red. I have always looked back fondly on my school days, a time when youthful caprice and boisterous shenanigans were the daily fare, so hopefully, this catalogue of high school lore will be lukewarm entertainment for anyone who accidentally clicked this link.

Orientation Day

I don’t know what they called it at other schools, but here, they called it ‘Orientation Day’, I recall it vividly, the entire experience was very much like the procedure for those entering prison. The lead up to Orientation Day had been exciting, I had purchased my textbooks, gotten new shoes and a haircut. Getting the new uniform was an experience though. The Uniform Shop was presided over by two ancient ladies, who had both made it their mission to combat the rising trend of baggy clothing. One was a tall lean woman, a cloud of silvery hair surrounding her thin, sombre visage as she constantly sent you back to get a smaller size, despite your constant pleas that you would ‘grow into them’. The other was the same age, but had decided blatantly dyed hair was better than accepting the effects of age, I recall that her hands were laden with jewellery, thick garish bands, encrusted with cheap stones and cubic zirconia which audibly clinked together as she drummed her fingers angrily on the cash register and grudgingly allowed you to buy a shirt that didn’t make you look like a male stripper.

We arrived in the morning, clustering together, a gigantic throng of mock bravado and fearful fake laughter. Many a lad sat despondent on his own, not a familiar face in sight, luckily I was there with Ferris, who had spent Grade 7 there, and thus was by our standards an old hand. At exactly 8.15 a bell was rung, and it became apparent that some kind of assembly would now be held as the boys who had spent Year 7 there tramped confidently over to the what was known as the TC.

Inside was a somewhat harrowing experience for us all. We were dwarfed by a hall built to hold ten times as many people as us, apart from the new kids, the only other people present were a few Seniors and a large portion of the staff, who stood around the periphery of the hall, as though they were waiting for the first boy to lose his nerve and make a break for the door. I sat there, looking I imagine like wildlife caught in the headlights of a truck, and wondering why on earth they made these shorts so damn uncomfortable. We all craned our necks, as a man, who appeared to be the one in charge ascended onto the stage in front of us and took his place in front of the lectern. It was the Deputy Headmaster ‘Tricky Dicky’ as we called him since his name was Richard. He not a tall man, nor was he exceptionally short, his face was somewhat contradictory, with slightly chubby cheeks and receding hairline he had long abandoned the notion of disguising clashing with the piercing stern blue eyes which blazed out from under his eyebrows, scrutinising it seemed each and every one of us at once. Clearly, this was the man in charge, and he was here to tell the new inmates what’s what. He spoke with an American accent, in clear, sharp and severe tones.

The one thing I recall from his address was this: “In this school, the Seniors are the student leaders, you will listen to them, you will respect them and you damn well better obey them. If a senior tells you to jump, you ask ‘How high?’ on the way up, if a Senior tells you to jump in the pool, you can come and complain to me, but you damn well better be dripping wet when you get to my office!”

The whole assembly was a nice mix of introduction and intimidation, ensuring that everyone was informed of the rules and any would be rebels were well aware of the consequences of their actions.

“Any boy who fails to follow the rules here will be dealt with accordingly” Tricky said, we all knew what that meant: The Cane.

Indeed, we were in the school that time forgot, where institutions such as the cane, which have since been branded barbaric and unproductive still existed. It wasn’t so bad, but then again I was never subjected to the cane myself, though I did have a few close calls. In fact, in a way, the boys respected the Cane, and since we were the only school to have it, we liked to brag about it to kids from other schools. ‘Yeah, it’s all good and well for you to throw rocks, but where I’m from mate, you’d get caned for that.’ One would remark, sticking your thumbs in your belt and leaning back on your heels with smug satisfaction at the incredulous stares of the rock throwing delinquent in question. The Cane was the administrations greatest instrument of terror, until it was grudgingly phased out midway through Grade 11, when the tides of changes reached even our little island of anachronisms. For the first three years of school though, we all lived under the ever present spectre of the thin yellow bamboo or wooden rod in the office of the Year Masters and Deputy Head. Bazza the crazy maths teacher had one too, it was named Milo, but it had long since been retired and was only for show and making loud noises with, but I digress.

After been thoroughly terrified by the disciplinarian speech of Dicky, we were then taken on a tour by a senior, I remember that during this tour, I found out nothing about where anything was, and the only thing I realised was that I was going to be lost within two seconds of actual classes the following day. Needless to say, had I been witty enough to think it up, I would have remarked that Orientation Day had thus far succeeded only in disorienting me, but since my repertoire or pithy remarks extended little beyond ‘I know you are but what am I?’ I didn’t utter a word.

Then we were assigned to our Form teachers. Our Form teachers would be the ones who conducted Form Class, which was the first period of everyday, where notices were read out, newsletters were distributed and other miscellaneous items of business were seen to. I found myself in 8E, with Ando the Oldboy (alumni in Seppo-speak) who had been a rugby star for the school in the late 80’s and had returned to teach Chemistry. He was a new staff member, having begun on the very same day as us. He was a thickset man, whose meaty trunk narrowed only slightly at the neck upon which was perched his squarish head. He read to us the rules contained in the front of out Yearbooks, a sort of diary in which homework and messages were recorded, a deadly poker face settled over his heavy set jaw. His appearance later earned him the nickname ‘Bulldog’, though I suspect this was also his name when he was at school ten years earlier. It was an interesting scene, the new staff member with the new students and a tense silent sense of dread permeating the air as each of us managed to suppress the myriad of fears and questions we were already faced with.

After Form Class, were sent to the Open Air Theatre for warcry practice. I shall discuss the spectacle that is warcry practice in a later story.

At 12 O’clock, the students were technically allowed to leave, go home and have a milkshake to calm their jangled nerves and dread the following day when actual school began. However, all those intending to try out for cricket teams were to remain behind for trials on No. 4 oval. I arrived, dressed in what I hoped would pass for cricket whites, though my shirt was actually just a white polo shirt from Best and Less. The cricket nets were a hive of activity, with boys bowling, batting, striding around with pads on their legs and throwing boxes (generally worn to protect the groin from injury) at each other. The man in charge was Mr. B, or as he would later be known Billy B. Mr. B was the morbidly obese ‘Personal Development Officer’ who also coached the 13A cricket team. I approached him as he rummaged through a kit for something, a giant triangular sweat stain extending down his back, his horribly obese frame quivering with every movement.

‘Excuse me sir’ I enquired, ‘but where are the bats?’

He grunted something unintelligible and threw his hand towards something in a gesture which was aborted quickly as he brought his thick hairy red arm back under him to prevent himself from toppling forward. I couldn’t see any cricket bats in the direction he had seemed to point.

‘Are there any pads left?’ I asked timidly.

With surprisingly speed he rounded on me, his huge face crimson with anger, a thin sheen of sweat gleaming on his huge rosy jowls.

‘JESUS BLOODY CHRIST BOY DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHERE THE BLOODY TOILET PAPER IS TOO!’ he bawled, pausing only because he had run out of breath. He produced a filthy towel from his pocket and wiped the shiny coating of sweat from his face, as his bulging eyes continued to shout at me I saw beads of sweat already forming all over his fat pudgy face. Even on the double chin which rolled out over the top of his collar, as though he was perpetually being strangled by his tie was sweaty and a brilliant shade of beetroot. I decided it was best to simply locate these items on their own, but from the very first day of my high school years I disliked Mr. B. I disliked him then, I really disliked him when he pretended to be everyone’s friend, and I outright despised years later as I finished when he was convicted of molesting a boy in the year above me and sent to jail for some time. Vindication.

I finally went home at around 2.30pm, exhausted, confused and on the verge of giving away this high school gig all together.