British private school education is infused with idiosyncratic nomenclature; most of it complete nonsense to an outsider and something I’m certain The Collective takes an elitist pride in. At least in my experience at Tonbridge, it all went from “rather quaint and colourful“ through “confusing and not very helpful” to an extreme of “positively obscure”.

In my first term of my Novi (first) year, we were required to read up on the school “Memoranda” and pass a test set by our House prefects proving that we had become familiar with all the terms and peculiar rules we were obliged to follow; much of it stuffy and pointless. Crowning this long list were a number of sacred cows that were meant to be inviolate… and one these Holiest of Holies was “The Head”.

The Head is a County Class cricket ground within view of many of the school’s main buildings and is home to the Tonbridge School 1st XI cricket team. Other than them, it was strictly out of bounds to all but The Head Master, Members of the Common Room (most of the teaching body, to you and I… and so long as they weren’t riff-raff), the Head Boy (written into the school Memoranda was the Head Boy’s right to not only grow a beard if he so wished but also to graze a flock of sheep on The Head), the school “Praes” and the groundsmen (many of whom in the past had requested their ashes be scattered there). To dash across this sacred ground without permission and be caught was to invite a rabid dressing down and subsequent punishment. Throughout my five years at Tonbridge I often fantasised about desecrating the place.

The only time it really snowed in all my five winters there was in the Lent Term of my second year. I imagine it was January or February of 1987. It snowed hard on the first night leaving perhaps a foot or less of snow and the subsequent cold snap then prevented most of it from thawing for the best part of the following week. The School relaxed a bit with regards our strict dress code and allowed us to stomp around the premises in snow boots and bits of skiing gear for a few days. That first morning of snow was chaotic due to our collective over-excitement and I remember at morning break The Grubber (our tuck shop) having to be shut after about five minutes on account of all the snow being flung through the open door and hitting the staff who were trying their best to sell us bacon rolls and bags of Monster Munch.

The next morning was cold and foggy. I remember us hurrying down The Avenue on our way to morning chapel and glancing right onto The Head. In the middle, right about where the wickets should be, you could make out the form of a six foot phallus and accompanying balls of considerable size. Approaching it was the figure of the head groundsman – with his bright pink bald head, signature leather jerkin and peculiar gate – a large shovel in hand and we paused to watch him bash the erection a handful of times before bringing it down.

I suppose we then went into chapel and sang a hymn.