Observations on Etonian nostalgia
You'd think five years at Eton would be enough to last a lifetime. But many Etonians spend the rest of their lives yearning to revisit their days in tailcoats. Until recently, they had to return to the school as teachers - or, in the correct Etonian parlance, "beaks". Now they have another option. Two Old Etonian beaks have designed a board game that gives "new boys, old boys and girls of all ages" the chance to experience "a day in the life of an Etonian".
Finding that neither Harrods nor Harvey Nichols stocked The Eton Game, I went to Eton, and bought it from the college gift shop. Along with the game (which costs a suitably plutocratic £49.99 - one wouldn't want the wrong sorts buying it), I bought an Eton mug, a ruler with a glossary of Etonian slang on the back, and some Eton shampoo. Back in London, I invited a couple of old school friends round. Then a worrying thought struck me: I spent only two years at the school, not the usual five. Would those missed years count against me in playing The Eton Game?
It turned out to be essentially a game of chance. But its rules (rather like those of the school) are fantastically and needlessly complex. A full hour was devoted to mastering the procedural intricacies of a game that turned out to be about as stimulating as Snakes and Ladders.
Each square represents a different location or aspect of Eton life. Thus, you may land on "Language Lab", or "Judy's Passage" (at which point, cue much reminiscence on the lines of "I remember the time when Bottomsby-Smythe let one off in old Fornby's French div"). You have to build up credit in four areas of Eton life - social, academic, sporting and artistic - all of which are weighted equally. This, it seemed to me, was a bit of a con. Though the school wouldn't admit it, everyone knows that the cherished ambition of all Etonians is to get into Pop, the society for the most popular (and generally sporty) boys. Members of Pop, who are allowed to wear brightly coloured waistcoats, are seen as a breed apart. Being "frightfully clever" is all very well, but there are few members of Sixth Form Select (the society for the most academically gifted pupils) who wouldn't exchange the silver buttons on their waistcoats for the patterned frontage of a Popper.
My friends and I played for an hour or so, getting steadily more drunk, until, defeated by the complexities, we laid down our pieces. As daylight faded, our anecdotes became less coherent and we sang "The Eton School Song", the words to which are helpfully printed on the box.
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