The Humble Origins of Sir Hubert, Part IV

I remember my university years fondly, but they passed slowly in Oxenfridge, and they were hard times. Every morning, the boys would awake to the sounds of the Headmaster beating the school bell with the limbs of dismembered students who had failed The Gauntlet. Chores involved cleaning the bell tower floors with hydrochloric acid, feeding the school hamsters (including our mascot, Simon the Psychotic, who had single-handedly gnawed off the foot of a first year during husbandry classes), and polishing The Gauntlet's revolving blades for next year's inductees. Breakfast was ghastly, especially when the cook was having an off day, and manners had to be impeccable. One boy was strung up by his nose hairs for five hours after eating his porridge with a salad fork.

Classes were also dreadfully dismal, but I am thankful for them now. I would not be anywhere near my present intellectual standards had it not been for the rigorous, demanding, and psychologically detrimental coursework at Oxenfridge. I keenly recall my coursework on ancient history, medieval history, world history, Oriental history, European history, modern history, rather obscure but highly interesting history, good dinner-time conversation history, the history of pick-up lines, the historical migration patterns of wombats, and a brief history of the British social strata as defined by upper, middle, and lower class dustbins. My minor in floral arrangements remained equally scintillating, especially my second semester on buttonholes.

But all this was too good to be true. Mere months before my graduation, disaster struck: I failed to turn in my library book on time. At Oxenfridge, the penalty for this felony was far from inconsequential: I was forced to translate the complete works of Vergil into Swahili within a week, while simultaneously being suspended upside down from inside the school dungeon and forced to hear the headmaster reading his personal poetry collection. No one before myself had ever survived.

I, however, broke the established trend. Not only did I translate the complete works of Vergil into Swahili, but I even did a bit of Ovid and Cicero as well. For my exemplary efforts, I was given a pet hamster from the school hamstery (whom I have since named Vergil, in honor of my translation) and was let off with only a minor flagellation.

I graduated highest honors with a B.S. in Historical Ramblings and, after a joyous ceremony, was drugged, beaten, and deposited outside of my lower class dustbin near Buckingham Palace. With substantial funds stashed away from my days in the Jaffa Cake industry, I endeavored to make a name for myself and work towards my dreams of a posh dustbin with its own indoor plumbing. I shall reconvene with this sentiment upon my next entry but, for now, cheerio, chaps!

The Humble Origins of Sir Hubert, Part III

To be or not to be. That is a question someone ought to actually answer sometime. But the question I am going to answer now, is this: how did I, Sir Hubert H. Humphries, receive my degree in higher rambling? Well, it certainly wasn't easy.

I received my letter of acceptance to Oxenfridge only days after my resignation from CEO, although I have remained on the Board of Directors for the British Jaffa Cake Corporation ever since. Now, many chaps have asked me as to the actual locality of this famed University and I, being one for honest answers, have responded that I am not quite sure. The University has, for centuries, been extremely hard to get into, and not solely on account of burdensome, academic standards, but rather because no one actually has a clue where the Dickens it is. I imagine this has lent greatly to the University's aura for the mysterious, although admittedly it makes admissions a somewhat complicated process.

I, in fact, had never actually applied to the University, and received my letter of acceptance not so much as an invitation, but rather as an impressment notice. Upon my opening of the letter, I went through a brief period of shock, closely followed by elation, constipation, further shock, disbelief, flatulence, and finally another shock, knocking me out cold. I assume this shock came in the form of the Oxenfridge Recruitment Officers, known for walking softly and carrying big, pointy sticks capable of rather nasty concussions. The next thing I knew, I had awoken in the inner chambers of Oxenfridge with a rather large bump on my tender scalp and a terribly sore posterior. The next morning, I ran the Grim Gauntlet (which had a survival ratio of one in seven) with record time, and was ceremonially inducted into the class of '07 after determining to major in Historical Ramblings with a minor in Floral Arrangment.

My following years in Oxenfridge were, albeit a painful process, marked with success and I will continue with my revelations upon a later date. Cheerio, chaps!