You're getting divorced? Boarding school it is for me then...

By the time that I was nine or ten I realized that things weren’t quite so perfect with my parents as I had imaged. I could hear a lot of shouting coming from the room next door and, with my move to secondary school imminent, I started thinking about the possibility of boarding full time.

Years spent sending pleading notes to my parents begging them not to send me to boarding school came back to bite me in the arse and an uphill struggle followed to persuade my parents that I genuinely had changed my mind.

Soon though Mum realized that it was not a whim and, probably under duress, took me to see a number of potential boarding schools. Being the sporty type I was gleefully shown around all the best public sports schools but for some reason didn’t find what I wanted.

I remained stubbornly undecided until I found a school founded by a Mr Sexy and aptly named Sexey’s School. Any school with the word sex in its title had to be the one for me. I later realised that turning up to sporting events in a red minibus labeled with gold sign writing of the schools name wasn’t the fun that I had first anticipated)

Anyway, Sexey’s it was.

Coincidentally I went there with a friend, who like me, had first attended a public school. Consequently we were both well spoken, rarely swore and generally knuckled down in class. Our sports teacher loved us as we had also been through extensive training and were fit, obedient and eager to get on with whatever sport - excluding, perhaps, cross country which surely no-one likes?

It wasn’t easy joining a boarding school in the 2nd year. It was a mixed school and, like any, everyone had already found their social standing during the first year. There were the cool kids, the geeky kids (intelligent?), the intelligent (but funny) kids, the trouble makers (cool kids?), the sporty kids, and evidently the strong and the weak (either mentally or physically or both).

A pecking order had already been established with the boys. Ask any of them where they fitted in this and they could usually name the top five ‘hardest’, their standing in relation to them and who they are in competition with.

As ‘new boys’ we were tested by some kids – challenged you might say - to fight. The higher up the ‘hardest list’ you ranked the less likely you were to be challenged to a fight. Some people never had to prove themselves – it was just accepted that they were tough cookies and there was no point in testing them just to ruffle feathers. Similarly, the lower down the hard scale you ranked the more challenges you were likely to face as smaller cockier kids tried to fight their way up through the ranks. Me – I was somewhere in the middle.

By half way through the Second Year we had both settled in well and had each found our friends. We had behaved well enough to move out of the main dormitory with about 12 bunk beds to a smaller dormitory with friends which had about five single beds. I suspect that there are similarities in this pecking order and promotion to better living quarters to prison but I daren’t draw anymore as, generally, I enjoyed my time at school and fortunately have never been to prison.

By this point my parents’ relationship was well and truly over. The recession of the late 80’s and early 90’s had taken its financial toll and the arguments continued to spiral over who owned what whilst all along the solicitors bills inevitably mounted.

Me? I was living with my mates at school – but then I was only eleven eh.

As with all great inventions the idea is simplicity itself...

The Pitch

Like ice skating? Wish that you could skate to work but always find that you run out of ice just short of your front door?

Considered roller skates / blades or the more traditional skate board but have ruled out the idea due to a phobia of wheels or similar?

Perhaps you want to improve your fitness without having to travel to a cold warehouse on some dodgy out of town industrial estate - where ultimately you’ll endanger your little pinkies and have to listen to Madonna’s ‘Like a Virgin’ whilst being blinded by the cheap DJ’s dry ice. Whatever your traveling and play requirements this product is for you.

The Invention

The photos below depict the imaginatively named ‘Ice Shoe’ (Mark One to be more accurate)

This prototype includes a sawn-off Gap flip flop, a freezer, a yellow ice tray and some water. Unfortunately this initial model nearly broke my colleagues’ neck and resulted in months of physio and a long term sick note.


Seeing as we haven’t done anything with it for a while we thought we’d post it here on my blog to see if any bright engineering types would like to help us to develop the idea further.

Co-inventor Iain Wallace says,

“This product is theoretically sound but, mainly due to small engineering imperfection, it has its drawbacks. With consistent investment into R&D I feel that the Ice Shoe could revolutionize the way we travel and play in a truly environmentally sound way”

As with all great inventions the idea is simplicity itself:

The user would buy a kit which includes a bespoke ice mould and the relevant size ‘shoe’. Instructions would be provided on how much water to add and how long to freeze it for.

Here are some more photos of our prototype to give you an idea of how the finished product might look.




Footnote:

By posting this information on the internet the inventors do not relinquish any copyright or ownership rights to the Ice Shoe or it's concept / principal. If you would like to be involved or could perhaps offer some educated comments please feel free by clicking on the button below.

Oh, and kids - please don't try this at home. Only a fully qulaified ice shoe maker should consider trying to design and produce one of these. If you would like to buy one please contact the inventors by leaving a comment and they will trade your parents credit card details for a one bespoke ice shoe. Give us your Grans credit bank account details and we'll send you a pair.

Tuesdays are rubbish and I can prove it ...

It’s a common misconception that Monday is the worst day of the week (for all you students out there it’s historically so called as its most peoples first day back at work).

Sunday night is pretty bad but it can’t qualify as the worst day as it’s not the whole day that’s at fault – it’s just the evening that can be a bit shitty as you prepare yourself for Monday.

Saturday clearly can’t be the worst day of the week mainly because it’s S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y. If you’re unlucky enough to work Saturdays (and I believe some are) not even this can qualify it as a worse day than Tuesdays as you can’t be unlucky enough to work Sunday as well.

Friday definitely can’t be worse than Tuesdays as Friday is most peoples last day of work. Simple.

Thursday is the day before Friday so that rules that out.

Wednesday is the middle of the week. The mornings a bit pants as it still feels like there’s a lot of your working week left but by the time lunch has come and gone you’re on the downward slope towards Thursday and Friday (see above).

Tuesday by default sucks.

But what about Monday I hear you cry?

Oh yeah Monday. You’re either fully regenerated from a weekend of relaxation or hung-over from a Sunday Funday. Either way you’ll be buzzing from the weekend just gone. Surely that’s better than boring old Tuesday?


Footnote: I would like to take this opportunity to apologise to all of you that are reading this on a Tuesday.

My Last School Report

As a ten year old I was under the disillusion that life was perfect. I had a very comfortable upbringing and enjoyed school and sport. My older sister spent most of her time at a convent boarding school whilst I attended a local and very well known public school as a ‘day boy’.

There were only a small percentage of day boys at our school. I never wanted to be a ‘boarder’. To me it meant having to spend three weeks at school (including weekends) and then only being allowed to visit home for one weekend a month. I’m sure people loved it but witnessing how home-sick a six year old gets makes you not want to be involved.

Occasionally my parents would go abroad on business and I’d stay for a week or two at the school. I grew to enjoy this time safe in the knowledge that I’d soon be back home with all my computer games, bikes, radio controlled cars and other spoils.

People tend to have a funny perception of boarding schools – especially public boarding schools. Let’s just clear something up as I know the term ‘public school’ often causes confusion. A ‘public school’ is one that is not funded by the government and instead is funded by generally colossal tuition fees. Why then they are not called ‘private schools’ I don’t know as surely this would make more sense.

Let’s get back to peoples perceptions on public schools then. Most men (perhaps boys) assume a public school is full of homosexuals. Images of dropping the soap in the shower and bars on the windows tend to spring to mind. Women (or perhaps girls) tend to think of them as storyville establishments (think: Mallory Towers) and consequently tend to have more respect for their existence. Me? I have witnessed both stereotypes – although not, I assure you, to the extent of the soap in the shower scenario.

My particular school was a rugby school. We used to do an hour and a half of sport every day – wind, rain, hail or snow. Our Head Master (a title for a Head Teacher that no doubt reinforces the dubious sexual connotations associated with public schools) used to train us at ‘ruger’ . At the end of ‘ruger’ we’d all have to shower in full view of this Head Master. He’d usher us into the giant open walled shower cubicle and when no more shower heads were available he’d urge us with one of his haunting catch phrases, ”two to a shower boys, two to a shower”.

We never doubted his sexual nature. Never heard rumours of abuse and only occasionally mimicked his ever-so-slightly perverse instructions.

He wasn’t the type to change his ways and was slightly eccentric in teacher style. Another classic foible of his was to slap you on the backside as he ushered you into his office. Again, this was never taken out of turn by the students and no accusations were, to my knowledge, ever made.

To you, the reader, it may seem odd to read that, years later, I was surprised to learn that one of the boys under his charge had accused him of sexual assault.

It was nearly fifteen years after I left school that these charges were brought against him. One of my parents happened to read about it in a national newspaper. It was around the same time that I learnt that he was gay. More fuel to the accusers’ fire I guess.

Was he guilty? I don’t think so. My personal opinion was that he failed to change, failed to adopt to society and the politically correct middle class state that people, as a whole, wished him to adhere to. Twenty years ago he got away with an affectionate pat of the bum when ushering you into a room. Today an affectionate hand on the shoulder could get you into trouble.

The story had soon spread around our group of friends which led to a long conversation with my best friend. Turns out that the weekend after the story broke Leon happened to be visiting the small Dorset town where the school was based and bumped into the Head Teacher in question at the cash point. Leon had one question on his mind,
“I have to ask you this - what’s the truth?”
The Head Master smiled a sad, almost distant smile, turned to my friend and said “Leon. (yep, he remembered his name nearly 15 years after he left school) Good to see you. No, there is no truth in it”
Leon said that he could see he was telling the truth just by looking into his eyes.

As far as I know he lost control of the school, moved to a tiny hamlet in the Cotswolds and finally hung up his teacher’s hat and retired.