The Spanking Writers

I’ve just finished reading the quite wonderful “Restless”, a thriller by prize-winning novellist William Boyd. A couple of phrases ended up being read aloud to Haron as I went. Take this description of a posh London gentlemen’s club, by one of the book’s leading female protagonists:

“The modest entrance concealed a building of capacious and elegant Georgian proportions. On the first floor we passed a reading-room – deep sofas, dark portraits, a few old men reading periodicals and newspapers – then a bar – a few old men drinking – then a dining-room being set up for dinner by young girls in black skirts and crisp white blouses. I sensed it was very unusual ever to have a female in this building who wasn’t a servant of some kind.”

Clearly, a traditional sort of place: I can imagine the members thrashing out the club’s disciplinary policy for staff. “Etonian rules” would be in effect: said smart young ladies would be dealt with soundly for any misdemeanours.

Later, the same character described some rather interesting emotions:

“I was in a strange giddy panic: a combination of excitement and fear, a mood I hadn’t truly experienced since childhood when, on those occasions you wilfully do something wrong and proscribed, you find yourself imagining your own discovery, guilt and punishment – which is part of the heady appeal of the illicit, I suppose.”

‘Appeal’, eh? Ah, it seems that your secret’s out, ladies…

For those of our readers who were personally affronted by quotes from Daily Mail yesterday, here’s a suggestion I read between the lines of the Guardian a couple of weeks ago.

The columnist Alexander Chancellor was caught driving at 35 mph in a 30 zone. It appears that when your speeding offence is relatively minor, you get an option of attending a special ‘speed workshop’ instead of getting points on your license. Nobody wants points of their license, so Mr Chancellor went along to the workshop. He wasn’t sure it was that good a way to spend his time:

…there is still the question of whether these “speed workshops” are useful.

People attend them for one reason only: to avoid getting points on their licence. And those who are given this option hardly deserve to be penalised anyway. They are drivers who have inadvertently allowed their speeds to drift up slightly above the limit; not the delinquents who roar through villages with the cheerful abandon of Mr Toad.

…As it is, the workshops are presented not as a form of punishment, but as a voluntarily chosen educational entertainment that you are supposed to enjoy.

Clearly, this will not do. What Mr Chancellor suggests instead, is that ‘minor’ speeding offenders are offered an option of a flogging instead of their points.

They would go to the police station after work, be shown to a soundproof room, secured to a frame, and given a number of strokes with a strap or a birch. Although preferable for some as a way of avoiding points on their license, this punishment would be clearly severe enough in itself that the drivers would think twice before foolishly drifting over the limit.

… OK, he hasn’t suggested it in so many words, but I did say I was reading between the lines.

“Daily Mail” has a section called Answers to Correspondents. You write to them with your question, they publish it, and then publish responses sent in by other readers.

Last week’s page included a question:

My father was at school in the Fifties and said there was not much bad behaviour because ‘those who caused trouble would get six of 12 with the tawse.’ What’s a tawse?

I smelled a rat when I read this question. If the correspondent genuinely didn’t know, why didn’t he or she asked the father, rather than writing to a newspaper? I bet they were fishing for people’s stories of childhood corporal punishment. Oh, the rascals.

The idea does lend itself to an interesting game: seeing what sort of outrageous question you can get into the newspaper.

My granny said her governess used to spank her with a brush. I think it’s outrageous, poor granny. Were all governesses allowed to do things like that?

Or

My new boyfriend has a collection of solid ebony hairbrushes on his bedside table, but he is completely bald. Why are they there?

Or

I was going through airport security, and the man behind me set off the metal detector. He calmly explained that it was because of Prince Albert, and was allowed through. What does Queen Victoria’s dead husband have to do with metal detectors?

OK, I’ve exhausted my supply of naughtiness for this morning. Would you like to have a go? Or, better yet, would you like to just send your questions to the papers, and see if you get in?

I’ve just happened upon the brochure from the spa at the wonderful resort Haron and I visited over the Christmas holidays. It’s full of typical spa-babble, with lots of pseudo-spiritual nonsense seeking to imply that “there is something deeper in this than our desire to fleece you for as much money as possible”. Spa cognoscenti amongst you might recognise the sort of thing:

“Experience deeper healing via this original Malay style massage where special techniques have been passed down over the centuries…”

“Seems to effortlessly melt away any tension held in your body. Lasting benefits include improved sleep, circulation and relaxation.”

“Healing through heat is one of the most nurturing ways to experience deep calmness.”

And yes, the last of these was really in the brochure. It’s inspired me to launch a similar service myself, albeit I would happily take commission from any entrepeneurs who want to use the idea for their own spas. It’ll run something like this:

“The English massage. The perfect choice to remove guilty feelings and help to restore inner peace. Starting with a firm application of palm oil, the instructor applies traditional local products such as rattan and birch, concentrating the mind in an unbelievably intense experience.

Afterwards, meditate whilst standing in the traditional posture with your hands on your head in the special corner of the treatment room, and then relax on the cushions provided as the warm glow of your experience slowly wears off.”

I so enjoyed writing the Sunday morning sermon for the school role-play we so enjoyed a few weeks ago. With a mix of girls, some religious, some not, there was a fine line to tread lest I cause offence. A spoof parable formed the basis of my preaching, and seemed to do the trick, and I can’t resist publishing it here – rather than consigning it to the outer reaches of my laptop, never to see the light of day again.It was taken from the (entirely non-existent) Book of Jonathan, chapter 6, verses 14 – 18:

For the girl didst speak ill words to her father, and this pained her father, and he in turn pained her. “Dost thou not know to honour thine parents?” he spake, solemnly, before sending her out into the oasis to cut a switch from the apple tree that didst bless the family with its fruits. And he didst punish her severely, and the girl wast sorely chastened.

It was but three moons later that the Feast of Archibald fell upon them, and as is set out by the scriptures, the young women of the village gathered in the temple to hear the Elders speak. Yet the girl didst not gather with the others at the annointed hour. She made her way tardily to the temple, and lo, she didst there gossip with another girl whilst the Elders taught. And the preacher became mightily annoyed. “Dost thou not know to honour thine Elders?” he spake, solemnly, before sending her to the front of the temple to bend over before the other girls, and taking out his rod. And he didst punish her severely, and the girl wast sorely chastened.

It was but three weeks later that the girl wast riding a donkey through the village when she didst pass a fruit grove, full of the ripest, juiciest and most tasty pears imaginable. She tied her ass at the side of the track, and didst climb into the hidden orchard, gorging on the forbidden fruits. But lo, the fruit owner didst catch her, and didst take her before the judge. “Dost thou not know to honour thine neighbours?” he spake, solemnly, before sending her to the village square, and beseeching the local boys to make haste and cut a bundle of birches. And he didst punish her severely, and the girl wast sorely chastened.

And the girl returned home, and didst lie on her front on her bed, weeping. And as she wept, and reflected on the lessons that she had experienced, she vowed that she would be a good and worthy girl henceforth. And she became loved by all, and much praised, and lived happily until the age of four hundred and seventy three.

People who know me, know that I have bad memories about my former maths teacher – to the degree that I still have occasional nightmares about being in his class. (Which, over ten years after graduation, means that my memories really are very traumatic.) I never say his name without automatically adding “hope he burns in hell”. I’ve always ranked him among the most monstrous creatures in my personal bestiary.

Anyway, I was talking to my mother on the phone, and she suggested that I may want to have a look at a Ukrainian news site. She warned me not to take a drink when I did, because I may splutter in indignation.

So I take a look. And what do I see?

My former teacher (now promoted to principal, grr) standing next to –   drum roll – George W. Bush. Who is visiting Kiev. And got taken on a tour of my old school.

What? TWO of my personal monsters next to each other in the same picture?

I did splutter, I confess. Traumatic school memories aside, I still don’t like the idea of my alma mater being contaminated by Dubya’s presence. I hope he got booed.

On the other hand, the even has made me reassess my scale of monsters. Obviously, my former teacher remains responsible for some of the more unpleasant days of my life, but on the grand scheme of things? Maybe he’s not that bad after all. Maybe just being excessively strict isn’t grounds for going to hell.

I even have a reason to be grateful to him, because he has provided inspiration for some of my best, darkest spanking writing.

Which is more than you could ever say about Baby Bush.

We’re walking past Covent Garden tube when a scruffy-looking guy standing in front of a blaring CD player thrusts an empty CD case into my hand. “If you go to the Adidas original store around the corner, they’ll give you the CD,” he explains.

There, we’re surrounded by racks of retro clothing – the sort of stuff that would have looked good in the 70s. (Sorry, strike that: it wouldn’t have looked at all good in the 70s, but people would have worn it all the same).

And then there was the footwear section. I browsed, idly, lost in contemplation of 70s spanking scenes that we could play. So now I’m waiting for the Dunlop Original Store to open: I need a pair of their “green flash” training shoes, so that Haron gets to ‘enjoy’ that authentic PE teacher experience.

A cross-country run, I think. Pushing another girl over, so that she fell into the mud. “It was an accident, sir,” said girl would plead, trying not to get Haron into trouble. But I would have seen the whole incident across the fields, would remember their bickering before the race.

I’d send the muddy girl on her way: “I admire your loyalty, but if I ever catch you lying to me again, you’ll regret it.” “Yes, sir.” And then I’d turn to Haron….

PS If the good people from Dunlop are reading and would like to send me a pair in return for the advertising, do email. And if the folks from Adidas want to try and boost their market share amongst the spanko community by trying to convince me that their trainers were more effective than Dunlop’s, they’d be most welcome.

I’ve just been asked to provide a reference for a former member of my team, who’s starting a new job. On her new employer’s questionnaire:

“Has the applicant undergone any disciplinary action?”

Ahem. If only they knew who they’d sent that to… Especially since the young lady in question is one of my few vanilla friends to know about our extra-curricula activities, and is herself pretty kinky (albeit sadly not with quite the same pervy interests as ours)!

Next up, in our trawl through the court archives of the Old Bailey: young Maria Gurdham, aged 18, who was punished on this day in 1799.

She’d been taken on 1 March in as a servant by John Allingham, landlord of the “Greendragon”, a pub in Hart Street (known these days as Bloomsbury Way). She came with character references “from Princes-street, Westminster.” Yet on the 18th, her new employer noticed that various items were missing from his bedroom.

“We accused her of it”, the landlord explained, but she denied it. Yet her guilt was in little doubt: the items had subsequently been recovered from the local pawnbroker, Samuel Morritt of nearby Long Acre, who swore that he had received them from young Maria.

Up to that point, of course, she must have hoped to get away with her crime. But I’m imagining the conversation playing out:

Allingham: So you still proclaim your innocence?

Maria: Of course, sir.

Allingham: Then how do my possessions come to be at Mr Morritt’s pawn shop?

Maria: I have no idea, sir. You’d have to ask him that.

Allignham: But I did. And he assures me that it was you who sold him the items in question.

Maria: Please sir. I can explain. Have mercy on me. Please don’t send me before the court.

But before the court she was taken, where she was:

indicted for feloniously stealing, two shirts, value 8s. a linen sheet, value 3s. a pair of nankeen breeches, value 3s. a dimity waistcoat, value 2s. a pair of cotton stockings, value 12d.

She was tried before the second Middlesex jury, whose names are recorded for posterity: Thomas Hill, James Ward, Joseph Welch, Matthew Long, Henry Young, Thomas Brown, William Nash, John Morgan, Joseph Leach, James Watts, Hezekiah Denby and Robert Thompson.

They found her guilty, of course, and Lord Kenyon passed sentence:

The prosecutor having consented to take her into his service again, the Court ordered her to be privately whipped , and discharged.

“Having consented to take her into his service again?”!! Do I sense that, despite her criminal ways, Mr. Allingham might have had something of a soft spot for young Maria? If so, might he have stood outside, waiting while she was whipped, before taking the sobbing, remorseful girl back to the Green Dragon to comfort her?

I’ve walked past the seventeenth-century royal Banqueting House on Whitehall numerous times, without ever detouring inside. But a cold recent morning tempted me off the street, and I immediately felt guilty for having ignored the palace for so long. The Rubens ceiling is astonishing – a true masterpiece, quite the equal of anything in the National Gallery on the opposite side of Trafalgar Square.

The curators have thoughtfully provided viewing mirrors: you peer in, and the delights of the paintings can be seen clearly without suffering a crick in the neck. And yet…

Yes, here I was, in a famous royal hall, equipped with an original birching block. I was all for hoisting Haron into position, tying her down and flogging her, when I noticed the stern guard throwing suspicious glances in our direction.

At the end of the room is the royal throne; around its edges, numerous benches. Noble girls who’d offended would be ordered to report to the court: they’d sit, nervously, awaiting their turn.

One by one, a courtier would call a name. The chosen girl would step forward, a lonely walk across the wooden floor. She’d curtsey as she presented herself to His Majesty: details of her offence would be read out. He might ask her a question, seek an explanation, before pronouncing sentence.

The fortunate ones would be despatched down the road to offer up a prayer of apology in Westminster Abbey. More likely, though, the King would award her a birching. “Three strokes” would suffice for a girl needing to be taught a memorable lesson; more often, he’d instruct the guards to award ten, twenty or more.

She’d be led across to the flogging horse, the eyes of the other girls following her. (“My turn next,” terrifying some, whilst others – sitting in agony – squirmed from the discomfort of their own recent thrashing, moments before). Her skirts would be lifted; she’d be tied tightly; a fresh bundle of rods would be selected, and the annointed punishment laid on – hard, so as not to displease His Majesty. Afterwards, she’d walk forward to the throne, and curtsey once again before retaking her seat, painfully, to observe the remainder of the morning’s proceedings.

As I say, the place is worth a visit…