POSH BOYS


POSH BOYS

TALES OF CAMERON AND THE UPPER SIXTH STARRING PICKLES THE FAT OWL OF THE REMOVE
“I say you chaps,” it was the much abused Clegg Senior, still called The Fag behind his back, who popped his head around the door, interrupting the late afternoon feast, “have you seen David?”
Osborne took another mouthful of crumpet and looked up from where he was reclining in the sequestered window alcove and sighed, “No Cleggy old chap he’s down at Matron’s, didn’t he tell you. He always sees Matron on Thursdays!”
Clegg smiled shyly, “Oh right, thanks chaps,” he hesitated for a moment, looking at the tempting plate of crumpets.
“Do move along old chap” it was Two Brains Willets who broke his silent deliberations, “your creating a draught and we are having a something of a private meeting old boy.”
“Right ho,” Clegg closed the door and silently slunk away.
“He is an awful clot that Clegg,” declared Grayling.
“Utterly wet and windy,” interjected Duncan Smith.
“Total Arse,” concluded Gove.
“Definite streak of Oik about him,” summed up Maude junior.
“Useful Arse,” stated Osborne, plucking another crumpet from the plate, “don’t forget it was Clegg who persuaded his Mater and Pater to put the pressure on to increase the school fees to keep the Oiks out.”
At this point the door swung open and Eric Pickles, the Fat Owl of the Remove ambled slowly in, “I SAY,” he exclaimed sighting the ample supply of freshly toasted crumpets.
“Hands off Pickles,” Grayling took a well aimed kick at the posterior of the Fat Owl.
“I say,” The Owl began to protest, just as a well aimed text book winged its way from the secluded alcove, striking him full on the forehead, “steady on chaps, a fellow is only after a spare crumpet!”
They all laughed, nobody could ever remember The Fat Owl ever eating just one crumpet.
“If you don’t want a debagging you’ll stay well clear of those crumpets.” Grayling declared.
Osborne got up from inside the window alcove and strolled across the room to pick up his exercise book. He had spotted Hague crossing the courtyard. Hague was a prefect and in truth a bit of a sneak.
“I know a secret.” The Fat Owl chirped, his eyes still fixed on the crumpets.
“What do you know,” Osborne cut in, a strong note of scepticism in his voice, still he was curious as to what the Fat Owl could possibly bring to the proceedings.
“Give me a crumpet,” protested the Owl, “then I’ll tell you.”
“I’ll give you crumpet,” Grayling moved menacingly toward the owl, “you little liar.”
“That’s rich coming from you,” mumbled the Owl, for Grayling’s fictions were well known to everyone.
“What did you say,” Grayling’s face was scarlet and his posture now extremely threatening.
“Stop,” Osborne stepped in, “give him a crumpet.”
The Owl greedily plucked a crumpet from off the proffered plate.
“Well,” enquired Osborne, “what is it you know.”
“Boris,” said the Owl slowly, his mouth full of crumpet, “is leading out the team on Saturday, not Cameron.”
“What nonsense,” shouted the esteemed Jeremy Hunt, the swot of the upper sixth, who worshiped the head boy, “David always leads out the team, you’re an utter rotter Pickles for making up such lies.”
Having consumed the remainder of the crumpet and with his eyes still on the plate, the Owl protested, “It’s true I tell you, I heard it myself from Bercow junior.”
Osborne looked concerned, he was thinking of Boris, Johnson Junior the blond bombshell of the Upper sixth, he was not so sure that the Fat Owl was not telling the truth.

To be continued…………………………………………………………

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