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!
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!
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