Well stone me... I didn't realise that there was a little page bar on the brown band at the bottom of the page. What I've seen is just the tip of the iceberg, so much more is hidden below.

What entertainment! Headmasters who cannot string a sentence together; wolves in sheeps' clothing, or rather gentlemen in gymslips; cynics who don't believe a word; frightening religious fundamentalists; lots of posters who don't like each other... but also some very genuinely interesting and erotic thoughts, memories and accounts of corporal punishment.

I of course do find the subject fascinating, I have since I was seduced into its esoteric delights by an older woman, well she was 10 to my 9, and happily store every memory since, so I have enjoyed many of the postings.

The discussions of male teachers punishing female pupils generate much argument. Of course a high proportion are fantasy, but there is also a pattern where every account is scorned because of an almost evangelical certainty that it never happened.

Of course it did, for the very reason that many men are fascinated by the subject. Many of those who did, entered the teaching profession. What a perfect way to indulge their passion. They wouldn't do it carelessly or dangerously, but when the time was right, the opportunity was there, then they could. After all, if they were to confront a stranger and lift her skirt to the waist, they would be arrested, but under the guise of admistering legitimate discipline, when such discipline was legal, they could happily indulge their sport.

Of course sometimes they chose wrong and overplayed their hands and found themselves in court, but for every such case there were hundreds, no probably thousands that didn't. Nearly everybody who went to school in the seventies or before could relate incidents either witnessed or related. I will get back on topic and relate some more of mine.


One of my 14 schools was a primary school in Corsham in Wiltshire. It was there I took my 11+, played for the first 11 at football.... and fell in love with some wonderful girls.

The school was a typical small primary school. Victorian built in grey stone with two playgrounds (one for the adjoining infants), an outside toilet block and high ceilinged classrooms with rows of traditional two seater desks.

The headmaster was a Mr Hart. He didn't regularly teach; when he did, it was a treat. He ignored the subject, instead told us entertaining stories and made us laugh. He drew funny cartoons on the blackboard and played with words. He wrote the word "wood" above the name "John"... and explained, much to our 11year old myrth, that it spelt out John Underwood (the name of one of the boys in the class!)

Then, and even then I found it odd, he wrote the name "Mary Birchbottom", and then asked if we knew what a birch was. In response to our collective head shaking, he went on to give a discourse on its terrible history in education, with vivid imagery of bleeding bottoms, and how both boys at public schools and even girls at very special institutes were severely punished on the bare!

He certainly didn't have the knack of keeping his audience; the fun and happiness vanished. He tried to make light of his discourse by concluding that if he had to cane any of us, it would be nothing compared to beatings of yore. Perhaps that was his master plan.

Actually until then, I cannot recall anybody being caned, although it was true that I had been there for less than a year. School was fun, the kids were nice, the girl's kisses were sweet, we played football or cricket in the playground around skipping girls, or even better... girls doing handstands with their skirts tucked into their knicker legs in futile attempts of modesty.

Our class teacher, who as far as memory goes (sorry that doesn't extend to her name) taught us everything. She was the epitome of all a primary schoolmaam should be. Plump, matrony, ruddy faced, and usually happy and even loving to us all. But one day I don't know what went wrong. One of the girls in our class was a cheeky little madam, but never beyond the limits. She was a pretty slender little brunette and popular with all. I don't know what she said or did, but the teacher went into a frenzy. She dragged her to the front of the class, yelling and berating her, and warning her that "she wasn't to young for a thrashing". I remember wondering whether she meant she wasn't to "old" for a thrashing as she threw out the contents of her desk in desparation screaming, "where's my cane?... have you seen my cane?" As none of us had ever seen her cane, we weren't of much assistance, but eventually she came up with a length of bamboo and forced the object of her anger face down over the seat of a chair and gave her a flurry of whacks over her bottom and legs. When the girl returned to her desk, and I do remember clearly it was with almost an air of triumph, there was a strange atmosphere of unreality. We were all silenced in shock, although I'm sure I wasn't alone in finding that shock mixed with an excitement about the theatre of kicking legs, flashing thighs and knickers and the whacks of the cane.

The teacher had lost control of herself and of the situation. The half smile on the girl's face was proof of that. "You'll laugh on the other side of your face," she fumed (an expression I still don't understand!) and flounced her once happy fat frame out of the class and stamped up the narrow stairs that separated the two main classrooms and led to Mr Hart's office.

Now it was serious. We all sat in silence and a few minutes later she returned with the headmaster who crooked his finger at the now subdued offender and ordered her to come with him. We tried to carry on, but you could cut the tension:Wildean. -The ballad of Reading gaol! Now we all knew she was being properly caned.

It was ages (or at least seemed so) before they returned. Her eyes were brimming with tears as Mr Hart told the teacher that she had something to say to her. She trembled out an apology which resulted in Mr Hart clapping his hand and announcing that all was fine again in our happy little world. It almost was. The girl sat forward with her head in her hands for a while before recovering her composure and offering a wan liitle smile in return to the silent sympathy that floated towards her. By lunchtime her pride was fully restored as in a corner behind the toilet block she lifted up knicker legs to show off the hard welts striping her round little bottom. Our gasps of horror and admiration for her stoicism fed her natural confidence and soon she was relating all the intimacies of her ordeal.

And yes, Mr Hart did pull her knickers down.

And before the doubters question my memory, her words became indelible in my mind. If you doubt her truthfulness...or mine... why? Mr Hart had delivered to him the perfect gift. Mr Hart had his "Mary Birchbottom."

Dear, dear Jon Kinky,

Thank you so much for sending in such an interesting account. As you and our other regular readers will know, I wish that the teacher had given the child a post-flagellatory hug.

Now that you have discovered the earlier pages of this forum, you will have many, many hours of happy reading. It is because of the open-mindedness, if not the naivety, of our distinguished moderators that virtually any subject may be discussed here. You will know from experience that this liberal attitude is not adopted by the administrators of other fora for which you write.

Retired Headmaster George is not a man ‘who cannot string a sentence together’, but a well-respected scholar who has dedicated his life to the preservation of Middle English.

Gillian

I'm sure, or at least hope, dear, dear Gillian, that she probably did, if not then, shortly afterwards. She was such a nice teacher. Perhaps Mr Hart gave her a hug after her caning. I know I cerainly did... and have so many times since.

My one bad memory of Corsham was taking my 11+ English exam. I found it so easy and was soon gazing around egotistically at my fellow testees as they scribbled away while my perfectly scribed paper lay four square on the desk before me. Then at the five minutes to go announcement I discovered that the question paper had two inside pages that I had not opened and fell foul of a cold fear that by that stupid mistake, my future was ruined. Oh what cruel fate; could Thomas Hardy have divised such human tragedy?

Anyway, dear reader, worry no more... I passed, and moved on to Chippenham Grammar.

My memories of Chippenham Grammar are perhaps more sketchy than any other period of my life. The classrooms for 1st year pupils was housed in a block of white pre-fabs far from the much nicer main school buildings at the top of the hill. I can hardly remember any of my peers.. and absolutely none of the girls in my class. I remember one of the boys was called Holliday and was, at least at first, a terrible bully. He looked like the Fonze and was twice the size of the rest of us. But as the year went by and his antics marginalised him, his loneliness brought reform as his need to be embraced by us outweighed his desire to make our noses bleed.

I remember making the final of the junior Chess tournament and taking on the pre-tournament favourite and letting him off the ropes by stupidly allowing him to get a stalemate from a King and Pawn against King ending! I remember a sense of both awe and fear about our games/PT master who played centre for Bath Rugby Club and who had a reputation for being fearful with the slipper. I can recall a knot of fear in my stomach when I had misread the timetable and turned up late for PT and was sure that I was to discover whether his reputation was justified, and became dizzy with relief when he said that mistakes like that were easy to make! I think he liked me. Most people liked me.

I remember we had a history, or geography, teacher with the unfortunate name of Mr Bullock. That is not a sleight to any dear readers who are members of the Bullock family...Sandra, you've done very well.. but for a teacher of horrid, smutty 12 year old boys, it was an unfortunate name. Actually he was doubly unfortunate in that he was also very unpleasant in appearance, and perhaps name and ugliness shaped his personality. On his first lesson, he took hold one of the horrid smutty punists and marched him out into the corridor and a few moments later the building echoed with the most resounding slap I had ever heard. The pair re-entered the classroom with the boy exhibiting a scarlet handprint across the back of his thigh. This event was repeated almost every lesson, sometimes more than once. Usually it was to the boys, but sometimes to the interest of my adolescent loins, to the girls too. Post lesson discussions of these events showed that with the boys wearing short grey trousers, the slap was always just above the knee, but with girls wearing dresses, he would lift their skirts knicker high and the handprint was always much higher on their thigh.

Why even then I had such an enquiring, scientific mind. Gosh, we Virgos... eh Tracey!

But strangely I can't remember any details of a single girl in my year.

But I do remember one girl. Oh yes, to this day. She was a third former, tragically unattainable to a short trouser wearing junior like me. She was tall and slim and...elegant. She wore her hair in a pageboy cut and sometimes wore a headband. And she seemed to float as she walked. She also dressed in an individual way. At a time when hem lines were on the rise, she wore her dress long. And always there were a couple of inches of white broderie anglais petticoat showing. She was ahead of her time. Well before the era of ubiquitous thongs displayed above hipster jeans, her habit of displaying her underwear was too frequent to be accidental.

My sister was in the same year as her, and I tried to glean knowledge from her about this ephereal object of my desire. I made my queries general, asking questions about several of my sister's contemporaries, not allowing my deluded desires out, just suggesting that I thought that she seemed very "nice".

Her reply threw my emotions into a tumble dryer. My sister told me that she wasn't as nice as she seemed... that she was always getting into trouble... and then, oh God, then she told me that she was always getting caned!

Air... I need to breathe!

I had a thousand questions, but dared not air one. I was afraid that my already developing passion for girls being punished would shine disgracefully through my attempts of innocent interest. I was afraid that the beating of my heart would be the stuff of Poe, that my mouth could not contain my saliva. I think I said "Oh" and tried to sound bored.

But it was either the next day or the day after that my sister informed me that my angel had been caned again. This time I was able to ask questions, after all it was only showing interest in my sister's conversation.

Who caned her?

The form master at morning break after she had been reported to him by a female teacher.

On the hands?

No, on the bottom. He always canes on the bottom, both girls and boys. He doesn't often cane girls, but she gets it more than anybody, even more than any of the boys.

Surely not on the bare bottom?

I don't know. He always lifts up girl's skirts though.

God I was in turmoil. I didn't just love my "Beata Beatrice"... I now lusted her. I would walk behind her as she walked with her friends, my eyes fixed to the band of petticoat and on her gently swaying bottom. I wondered if... no I knew there would be stripes on that secret, private round of flesh that I wanted so much. I hated her form master. Like Tom Sawyer with Becky Sharpe, I imagined rescuing her from his clutches. I hated him for lifting up her skirt, for taking the lacy hem of her sweet smelling slip between thumb and forefinger and unveiling her long thighs to his gaze. It was almost too much to bear to think about him staring at her bottle green knickers while aligning the cane for its first whippy strike. I wanted to kill him; I wanted to be him. It was the first time in my life that I had ever felt so jealous, ever felt the anger and misery it could bring. Yet still I couldn't stop the feeling of excitement that "she was always getting the cane". I felt guilty that I could love her so much, yet dream of her being caned. I dreamed of her knocking at my door, and wanting to play schools. Her saying that I should be her form master and that she was sent to me to be punished. "No", she would chide, "you have to lift my skirt up." "Now", she would sigh, "you have to take my knickers down."

She never did. She never did. Sometimes if I saw her talking in a group that included my sister, I tried to join in, but I was just an irritant amongst girls giggling about 5th form boys. I never knew her. I just dreamed and sometimes cried in frustration. I don't remember anything else about Chippenham. How could I; she overshadowed all, I'm sure that she always did. I hope that she always did.

But I often remember my alice-banded dream girl, floating along a gravel path in Wiltshire, showing her white slip, surely just for me, and secretly wanting to show me her well caned bottom!

Isn’t Jon Kinky’s latest piece beautiful! I shed a tear or two.

Jon Kinky is our John Betjeman. ‘Summoned by Bells’? No, ‘Summoned by Beata Beatrice’!

My dear, dear, dear Gillian.

Thank you so much for your sweet words. I am honoured to be amongst what I am sure is a very select group who have managed to bring a tear or two to your eyes.

But it may be wise to temper such fulsome praise in the future, as there are those out there who will be convinced that we are one and the same person.

In fact, as this must be my fifth or sixth posting on this forum, I should, by the law of averages, be receiving hate mail by now.

Finally in response to your earlier reply. I did not actually mention any headmaster (who cannot string a sentence together) by name. The headmaster I referred to may be similar to George, but not actually George. After all, this and similar fora must be teeming with retired headmasters who confuse the usage of "there" and "their". What I found particularly disturbing is that if this is the foundation from which education is being "dumbed down", where will it all end? In tears for sure. Equally confusing is that a headmaster (similar to George) would, if the accounts within these pages are true, have surely administered a public flogging across the bare buttocks with an elephant cane for such elementary bad grammar... and deservedly so.

Still, rest assured that I for one will continue to keep the standard fluttering, if not flying. Why just last week my sweet friend "A" made exactly the same error in a text message to me. She tried in her defence to say that it was due to her texting me at speed, but she agreed that it was not the first time I had drawn her attention to spelling and grammatical errors. In fact she had made exactly the same mistaken use of "there" just 14 months ago. On that occasion I let it pass with just a warning. You will be pleased to know that I keep my word and she will be roundly and deservedly caned when I see her on Wednesday. To divert any snide accusations that this is in any way for my pleasure, I will allow her to wear a pair of knickers throughout her punishment. That is of course providing they are of thin cotton. If she tries any of those tricks of Veron and Lau Lee Sze, turning up for her caning in a heavy serge pinafore,several petticoats, cycling shorts and 6 pairs or knickers, all will be removed and she will receive the customary 15 extra strokes on the bare bottom for cheating.

So I say to all those headmasters (not George, but similar to George), you really should have used those precious non-thrashing moments to have studied English. Think of all those caning opportunities you missed by not realising that the lazy mites were misusing our mother tongue.

Finally I realise that some may find my handling of A's texting error shocking. And of course I agree with you. You are quite right. I should have caned the wretched girl 14 months ago and it would not have come to this!

Dear Jon Kinky,

Buried in the archives is the post from the other fantasy headmaster. He wrote under the name of Christopher and his message ‘a real headmaster’ is currently on Page 5.

Here are just some of the unusual words contained in his piece:

‘writeres, pehapse, trouses, whallops, corse, agin, thouse.

I believe that, unlike George, our distinguished Chaucerian scholar, Christopher is writing in Gloucestershire dialect. Mr. Harvey (Miles on Brighton Pier) will possibly confirm this if he is able to remove his well manicured, but stained, hands from the nether regions of Lady Karen.

Gillian

Dear Mzzzzz Browne,

Christopher is not writing in Gloucestershire dialect. In that county of simple country folk, ‘trouses’ are known as ‘trousen’.

As F. W. Harvey had it:

When ere I go into they housen
The women d’say “tek off thee trousen.”

Thank you, Mr. Harvey. I knew you would be able to provide the definitive answer.

I do so enjoy reading your messages to the Brighton & Hove boards where you engage in sparkling repartee with Church Road Queens and menopausal women from Whitehawk. I have considered registering there so that I may join in the good clean fun, but will not do so until ‘Brighton and Hove Forums’ are renamed ‘Brighton and Hove Fora’.