The Spanking Writers

Last weekend we were very amused by two news stories that ran side-by-side.

In the first one, one of the deputies of the Conservative mayor of London had to resign from his post for such a big bundle of reasons that I’m not sure why they actually recruited him in the first place. Queue lots of blushes from the Tories. “But we didn’t know he ate babies for breakfast!” Oh, dear, what a nasty surprise for them.

In the second story, a Tory guy accidentally let slip his party’s secret plan of dealing with any future embarrassments of this kind. “The Conservative Party believes in bottom-up solutions”. Oh, good. Flogged politicians all ’round.

P.S. Did you know there was a Tory MEP called Den Dover? I must admit, I misheard his name at first. I suspect, that’s not unusual.

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Most of you probably know that Haron and I write for the Lowewood blog, set in a fictional school. My darling wife’s a regular contributor, whereas “Unstable Abel” (as the school chaplain was so ungallantly christened earlier in the year) joins in on a rather more infrequent basis.Amidst an array of fine writing on the site, I particularly enjoyed Claudia’s entry yesterday. The paragraph that especially caught my eye was as follows, in the aftermath of a poor test result:

Wearily I made my way to the front and bent over to take the pain for coming bottom. Across my bottom, naturally. Six proper cracks with the strap whilst I clung grimly to the bench, distracting myself as best I could by pondering what would happen if I actually wrenched off one of the gas taps in my efforts to stay down. Would we all have to be evacuated? Could we avoid prep that evening?

Whilst the young lady in the blog entry resisted the lure of the gas tap, I foresaw an alternative ending, in which she did indeed manage to tamper with the equipment. An alarm would ring; her punishment would have to be suspended as the whole school filed out into the playground. No doubt, on their return, the remainder of her punishment would be doubled… at the very least.

My mind wandered still further along similar lines. A girl had been called to her Headmaster’s study to be caned. Her best friend, worried about her fate, would set off a fire alarm; an evacuation of the buildings would ensue. The two girls would find one another in the melee - but it would seem that the distraction had come too late, for the first two strokes had already been administered. There’d be hugs before the pupils were let back in - and the rule-breaker would trek tearfully back to face her Housemaster to receive the remaining four strokes.

Only… their cuddles would have been noticed, and the instigator of the false alarm would find herself called before the Headmaster. Confronted with the allegation, she would break down and confess, and her dozen strokes in assembly the following morning would teach her the most painful of lessons.

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According to a report earlier this month in The Guardian, Pierre Cardin is spending millions in an attempt to turn the small town of Lacoste into a cultural enclave. The place has an interesting history:

Only the imposing, half-ruined castle that once belonged to the Marquis de Sade hints as a darker truth of the feudal rulers who lorded it over the villagers in this south-eastern corner of France… de Sade’s chateau [is] said to have inspired the gothic settings for his novels of sexual perversion.

Cardin has “spent millions restoring the castle” and his plans for the village include “luxury hotels, a top restaurant, a de Sade café and a piano bar.”

A de Sade café?!! The mind just boggles. I suspect that the conditions of employment for the waitresses are likely to be rather strict. And is it too much to hope that one of said hotels might be located in the castle itself, all themed rooms, whips available from room service and “would sir care to make use of the dungeon”?

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…Well, almost. She was in a scandal, and she needs a spanking.

Apparently, Princess Eugenie (aka “the cute 18-year-old one”), was enjoying some end-of-year mischief with her girlfriends when a member of staff woke up:

The tabloid Sun newspaper reported that a college staff member woke to playful shrieks and found several young women dancing around without clothes.

It said there was no suggestion boys were present or that drugs were involved but claimed a pupil said the students had been drinking.

I’m glad that at least one royal is capable of enjoying life without breaking the law or insulting entire nations in the process. Good for her.

…But that was my naughty side speaking. My responsible side says that young Eugenie shouldn’t get away with dancing around naked on the school premises. Obviously, there needs to be some sort of punishment involved.

I wonder if she has a whipping girl? I wonder if the palace is recruiting one now?

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We have found a curious passage in Time Magazine from Monday, Jan. 20, 1941.

Eton College (prep school), on whose playing fields the Battle of Waterloo was said (by the Duke of Wellington) to have been won, was bombed last month. When Etonians explored the ruins, they made a tingling discovery: the famed old “birching block,” over which headmasters had birched (i.e., flogged) boys’ bottoms for generations, was missing.

Although many an Etonian was disposed to let well enough alone, antiquarians searched diligently, eventually found the birching block’s remains in a bomb crater. Last week they reverently picked up the pieces, installed them in the Eton Museum.

I can well imagine some boy, who’d been flogged just before the bombing, looking at the birching block and heartily wishing: “I hope it bloody burns! And the Headmaster with it!”

Then - bang, crash, lots of dust and broken stone, the pieces of the block… The boy looking frantically for the Headmaster: “I didn’t mean it about him burning, I didn’t!”

I bet he would need to go to confession and pay the penance, even though the Headmaster is found alive and intact.

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My teddy bear was pleased with my recent trip to the States, as I brought back a present for him. He’s now proudly sporting an “Obama 08″ badge – which looks a little incongruous on his monk’s habit, it must be said, but bears can’t be choosy.

I was amused to read recently about 95-year-old Charles Edwards presenting said Presidential Candidate (how wonderful to write that!) with a maple walking stick. Obama waved it about, commenting:

“This is a beautiful stick. I really like this. And if members of congress don’t pass my health care bill? I’m ready! I’ll whoop them. I’ll whoop them! That’s right. They better not mess with me. I’ll have that stick.”

Haron is at this very moment preparing her run for Congress - on an anti-healthcare reform ticket.

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Last night I was attending to the pleasant task of picking a book to read. The publishing house Tor has been giving away free e-books over the last couple of months, and I’ve downloaded them regardless of whether I’d ever heard of the author. (I mean, come on: free books. Wouldn’t you?) Which one to read now, though?

I opened the file containing “A Shadow in Summer” by Daniel Abraham, and had a taste of the first few paragraphs.

Otah took the blow on the ear, the flesh opening under the rod. Tahi-kvo, Tahi the teacher, pulled the thin lacquered wood through the air with a fluttering sound like bird wings. Otah’s discipline held. He did not shift or cry out. Tears welled in his eyes, but his hands remained in a pose of greeting.

“Again,” Tahi-kvo barked. “And correctly!”

“We are honored by your presence, most high Dai-kvo,” Otah said sweetly, as if it were the first time he had attempted the ritual phrase. The old man sitting before the fire considered him closely, then adopted a pose of acceptance. Tahi-kvo made a sound of satisfaction in the depths of his throat.

Otah bowed, holding still for three breaths and hoping that Tahi-kvo wouldn’t strike him for trembling. The moment stretched, and Otah nearly let his eyes stray to his teacher. It was the old man with his ruined whisper who at last spoke the words that ended the ritual and released him.

“Go, disowned child, and attend to your studies.”

Thank you, Mr Abraham, with this fine display of enforced ritual and corporal punishment at school, you have captured my full attention. I’ll have some more of that, please.

So OK, this is the prologue, so maybe the rest won’t go along the same line. Still, an author who can write a kinky scene like that deserves to be checked out in more detail.

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A couple of nights ago I was getting ready for an early-morning flight*, and I had a Sky News review programme on in the background.

They were talking about the following day’s papers, and one of the pundits - somebody called Michael Brown - was highly indignant about a new system of road tax. He was really not liking it.

“The government is going to wallop the new car owners! They are going to get caned! Really caned. They are getting smacked with this tax.”

This is nearly verbatim - they talked about this issue for about twenty minutes, and the guy brought the caning into it every time it was his turn to speak.

My thoughts sort of drifted, and I imagined being able to get a caning instead of paying road tax. I would probably do it, thought it would depend on the rates.

I wonder, where would you go to pay your caning tax? In the Post Office maybe, like with the current tax disc?

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* I’m staying with my parents for a few weeks in Vanillaville. Woe is me. Well, not really; I’m glad to be back.

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I never can fathom the vagaries of airline security. Take your laptop out of your bag here; leave it encased there. Remove your shoes; pad barefoot through the grime. The only consistency is that they seem to think that humans have at least four hands, to hold all of the items which we’ve had to unpack or from which we’ve disrobed by the time we brave the scanners.

Our local airport seems particularly prone to making it up as they go along. As I headed out towards the States at the weekend, the young lady looked me up and down, and smiled ever-so-sweetly. Politely, she made her request: “Please remove your belt, sir.”

I suddenly realised that I’d found many a girl’s ideal job: eyeing up the toppish looking men, and getting that certain frisson as she watched them whip out their their belts.

I folded mine neatly, doubling it over carefully before placing it on top of the tray before her. I smiled. She smiled back. I wondered…

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We’ve just rejoined the National Trust, which looks after historic old buildings around the country. Not, of course, that any of our visits to said old buildings are purely for pervy pleasure, as we imagine life upstairs and downstairs. One of their properties caught my eye, and sounds like a must-visit location: The Workhouse at Southwell, apparently the best-preserved workhouse in England.

As ever, the Trust has tried to bring the history of the place to life. So, according to its website, visitors can:

Play ‘The Master’s Punishment’ game

OK, so I’m now wondering what this might entail. Will Haron be given a quiz to complete as she tours the property, a stern uniformed workhouse master marking her script, and applying the birch for every wrong answer? (Now there’s a job I’d enjoy for the summer season).

Maybe there’ll be a list of offences committed by the residents; visitors have to work out what the punishment would have been. Or perhaps the ‘game’ is more of a ‘guess the implement’: the girl’s tied down and whacked with the birch, cane, strap and more, having to work out which is which.

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