An unofficial punishment
CAUGHT IN THE ACT
The incident I shall recall in this account took place at my English boys' grammar school in the late 1960s. The school was quite a traditional establishment and corporal punishment was in use, both officially and unofficially. According to the school rules only the headmaster was supposed to give corporal punishment, but the PT master, who went by the highly appropriate name of Mr Payne, sometimes disciplined boys with an old plimsol which he kept in his small office next to the gymnasium. He generally inflicted one or two whacks across the offender's PT shorts, and although the slipper certainly hurt it was a lot less painful than the headmaster's cane.
The incident in question took place during my fourth year at the school. I was one of a trio of boys who had been excused PT in the gym in order to get in some running practice out on the playing fields. We certainly ran all the way to the cricket pavillion which backed onto the running track, but instead of getting on with the task in hand took advantage of the absence of any supervision to lounge about in the sunshine on the steps of the pavillion and chat.
'Anyone fancy a fag?' said Robert Vardy, fishing some book matches and a crumpled pack of five cigarettes from the small inside pocket of his running shorts.
'Don't be stupid,' I said. 'What if Paddy sees us?' ('Paddy' was Mr Payne's nickname, derived from a heroic WW2 fighter pilot featured in the Lion comic.)
'He can hardly see all this way from the gym, can he?' Chris Randall pointed out. 'We're perfectly safe here.'
Robert was already lighting up the first cigarette, passing it to Chris who took a couple of spluttering drags. He lit up another and gave it to me. I had experimented with smoking a couple of times in the past but hadn't really liked it, but in order to look as grown up as the other two I put the glowing cigarette between my lips and took a small puff. I still didn't like the acrid taste. Robert meanwhile had lit up a fag of his own and was puffing away like a trooper.
It was at that moment that Mr Payne suddenly appeared from behind the pavillion and caught us all in the act.
'Aren't you three supposed to be out on the running track?' he asked, in a deceptively friendly way whilst we stood rigidly in a state of shock, the smoke curling upwards from our half-smoked cigarettes.
'By the way, I'm sure you are all aware that the headmaster always canes smokers. Six of the best is the usual ration for senior boys. Do you wish to be reported to Mr Moore?'
'N-no sir,' said Robert Vardy, who had been whacked for smoking in the past and didn't fancy another encounter with the headmaster's swishy cane.
'And what about you two? Shall I give your names to the headmaster?'
'We'd rather you didn't sir,' I said, as Chris Randall nodded in agreement.
'Well, I obviously can't overlook this incident,' said Mr Payne. 'The next period is your morning break. Well, instead of going back directly to the changing rooms I shall require you to report to me in the gym dressed as you are in your running kit. I shall then discipline the three of you in an appropriate way. Now, do you have any more cigarettes or matches?'
Robert handed over the pack with its two remaining cigarettes, together with the book matches, as the three of us dropped our smouldering fags to the ground and stamped on the butts with our running shoes. Mr Payne turned on his heel and jogged back towards the gymnasium, leaving us both relieved and nervous. We were relieved not to be up for a caning, involving as it did a nerve wracking wait of a day or two and a letter home to our parents. On the other hand the prospect of an imminent slippering was not at all inviting.
'I reckon Paddy won't go easy with the slipper,' said Chris.
'That's still a lot better than a caning,' I pointed out.
'Yes, we're getting off lightly really,' said Robert.
PUNISHED IN THE GYM
When the bell sounded for morning break the three of us made our way to the school gymnasium. We were taken aback to see that the vaulting horse had been left out in the middle of the floor; Mr Payne was usually meticulous in making his PT classes tidy up any apparatus before he dismissed them. Then we realised that the horse might well have been left there for a purpose.
We heard the double doors creak open as the tracksuited PT master sauntered into the gym. However, instead of the expected slipper he was holding a wooden table tennis bat. Years later, when I came across a near identical bat in a second hand shop, my mind was immediately carried back to my schooldays and and I couldn't resist buying it. This picture will give the reader a good idea of the item in question.
The bat possessed a short handle, with the business end measuring some six to seven inches in diameter. It was covered on both sides with a layer of hard dark blue rubber, festooned with numerous tiny bumps, and I think it was this non-slip finish which was to make the bat so effective when it was applied to our backsides.
Mr Payne ordered Chris to lower his shorts and bend across the heavy vaulting horse.
'Did you say I had to take down my shorts, sir?' said Chris, obviously taken aback.
'Yes I did say that, Randall. Your rulebreaking is a serious matter and you can count yourself lucky you're not getting the cane. Now do as you're told.'
Redfaced with embarrassment Chris Randall dropped his shorts and lay across the horse. Mr Payne strode towards him, bat in hand, and then proceeded to give the boy's left bum cheek the most almighty whack. I heard Chris grunt with pain and saw his buttock began to glow bright red. Now the other cheek got the same treatment, the sharp smack of bat against flesh echoing around the high-ceilinged gymnasium. Chris ended up receiving three hard whacks on on each bum cheek, and as he staggered up from the horse his face presented a picture of agony.
'Now you lad!' Mr Payne beckoned me over to the horse and I began to fumble with my satin running shorts, all too aware that the eyes of my school friends were upon me.
'Get a move on!' I let my shorts drop to my ankles and positioned myself across the leather-topped vaulting horse. The smell of well worn suede pervaded my nostrils as I attempted to get comfortable. Any such comfort was shortlived, for a few seconds later the wooden bat struck my left buttock with considerable force. The pain was intense and before long my other buttock was smarting as well. 'Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!' The bat rose and fell rhythmically four more times leaving me with a cauldron-hot glow in my backside and my eyes were moist with tears as I rose unsteadily from the horse.
'Vardy, take his place!'
Robert Vardy walked over to the horse and dropped his shorts. I noted that he possessed a very white and smooth bottom, but could confidently predict that it would not remain white for long.
'I think you've been in trouble for smoking before, Vardy. Is that correct?'
'Yes sir.'
'In fact, you've been caned for this self-same offence by the headmaster. I've an idea that you're the ringleader here and I intend to punish you accordingly.'
Once again the wooden bat whizzed through the air, smacking hard against the tender flesh. This time Mr Payne did not stop at six but gave the wretched boy three additional extra hard whacks. As Robert bent down to pull up his shorts I could see that his entire backside was glowing a fiery scarlet. There were tears trickling down his face as he shuffled over to join us.
'Alright, put the horse away and then go and get changed. Get a move on or you'll all be late for your next lesson.'
Still very conscious of the hot glow in my backside I helped Robert and Chris manoeuvre the awkward horse into the cupboard on the far side of the gym. We then rushed across to the changing rooms, and although we were running late we made time to examine one another's well paddled behinds. It was generally agreed that Robert's was much the reddest.
'I never thought a little bat like that could hurt so much,' said Chris
'That's because we got it on our bare bums,' I said.
'I reckon we should stop calling the PT teacher Paddy Payne,' said Robert, the glimmer of a smile on his face. 'He ought to be nicknamed Batman!'
