THE UNSUNG
HEROES IN BLUE, BLACK & BLUE
"Ave
Caesar! Morituri te salutamus."
The famous albeit corrupted phrase
is a fine encapsulation of exactly what the newly appointed batch of House
Prefects felt on the eve of the 122nd encounter. There we were...
fresh, unabused and as naive as a Vestal Virgin to the tortures of the Big
Match. This was, of course, purely because we never really noticed those
dressed - up monkeys in white who used to serenade the SSC for no coherent
reason. All too easy to say, until you find yourself in the same boat, with
the same sinking feeling about it!
Let me now enlighten you, dear
cricket lovers on the best conceivable way of enjoying the Roy - Tho...under
the straw hat, whilst sporting the silver badge.
Day one: We had to report for duty
no earlier than 5.00 am. A time when even the most eloquent Thomian batsman
would be snoring louder than a hemiated hippopotamus. There to greet us was
the permanently punctual Mr. T, who swore to perforate our posteriors with
red - hot pokers if we ever got 2 seconds late again. On the next two moms,
we found out that there was nothing more exhilarating than a very real
threat of anal cauterization to report to duty half an hour early. All this
brouhaha was in aid to make a few minor adjustments to the Souvenir in order
to make it perfect; and perfect it must be, for the Souvenir to a Thomian is
what the Bible is to a Christian or the Jungle Book to an African.
When let loose to hunt on the
premises of the SSC, the feces really did hit the fan for the first few
hours, as each of us tried to find some fool who would part with his money
and relieve us of our burden. This exercise proved to yield a ton of
entertainment, for which blue - blooded Thomian could avoid a spot of slip
and tackle with the ladies while masquerading as Honest John House Cops? The
stakes were high. Very high. If ever we were unfortunate enough to get
caught in the act, the punishment would most definitely be unprintably
explicit. However, flirting with la femme de Roy-Tho is rather fruitless
because they never do buy a damned thing despite the secretion of vats of
honey on our part. On the contrary, blessed be the brother who runs into an
inebriated Old Thomian. Chances are the he too was once a House Cop, and he
feels your pain yakkity yak yak and therefore wishes to buy half your quota.
But wait, there is something even better, and infinitely more gullible than
this: an Old Royalist!! Oh yes, he would buy your whole quota just to prove
that he's richer than the two - bit Thora codger next to him.
If you, dear reader, thought that
selling Souvenirs was it, you're sadly mistaken, for it did nothing more
than build up a phenomenal amount of testosterone that could be audibly
heard vying for pole position, towards mid-day; ready to explode any
second...and that it did.. .three times over!
This is where the Big Match sets
two types of men apart: those who know the rules, and those who break them.
The rules I speak of were very clear, and were conveyed to us on no
uncertain terms...no boozing, no fagging, no singing, no dancing, no
swindling, no fondling, no this, no that and NO red meat. This should
probably explain why many of us were found in a higher level of bliss, with
our comrades in the afternoon. We were overcome by the primal and very male
need to vocalize our most ribald sexual encounters in poetic form. In fact,
my point is well proven by the simple fact that you never see a so-called
steward from that "other school" doing any of this. Oh no. Their mothers
specifically asked them not to!
And so we sang and sang...of Aaron
aiyya and his chronic constipation, of Mr. Murphy and his all too willing
daughter, and last but not least, of that amorous guy who makes a good tea
and is wanted by the law on seven counts of bigamy, among other things. This
orchestra from hell was occasionally punctuated to pass unsavory remarks at
the umpire for all his wrong decisions, and of course, to bellow that
blood-boiling call-to-arms: "Gimme a T! Gimme an H! etc etc"
Through all of this, I have only
one regret...that this high lasts only for a mere 72 hours. It's far more
effective than any other narcotic substance known to man! If there is a
greater joy to life than this, I know not of it. Three magical days where
responsibility, civility and humility are lost but not forgotten. Three days
for a House Prefect to prove his worth, and feel that surreal sensation
swell within his heart and course through every capillary in his body. That,
ladies and gentlemen, is nothing other than the very essence of Thomian
Pride. That, to us is the very thing that makes the Roy-Tho so much more
than just another cricket match.
But as long as there is work to be
done, ads to be found and Souvenirs to be sold you will always find one of
our kin present. As any College Prefect will heartily agree, when we House
Prefects are concerned, it is not a matter of whether you win or lose, but
on whom you place the blame!
I wish this year's batch of House
Cops god-speed with Souvenir sales, and the very best in all their
endeavors, legal and illegal. I trust they will not associate Mr. Benson
Mendis, and I hope they have the time of their lives. I know I did.
Esto
Perpetua.
AZZKIKR
