Tudor Hall, Sex Palace

1980 (15 YEARS OLD)1 month ago

1980 (15 Years Old)

Tudor Hall. An all-girls boarding school located a couple of miles outside of town. And an asylum for hundreds of sex-crazed nymphomaniacs, begging for boys.

Any boys.

At least that’s what Tinkham’s classmates at Wykham Hall school had convinced him was true.

I was skeptical. At that time, none of the girls at my school seemed to show that much interest in boys. Why would these girls be different? But I had also heard the rumour at my school that Jo Rice’s older sister Claire had been expelled from there after being caught in bed with one of her friends.

So, of course, I went along with his plan.

It wasn’t an intricate plan, by any means: climb over the wall and be chased by swarms of scantily-clad girls, like in a Benny Hill skit.

My friends were basically split into 2 camps regarding girls. There were those of us, such as myself, Tinkham, Kieran, and Smell, who would spend countless hours devising schemes to meet girls; then there were the others, that included Singhy, Ellis, and Julian Robinson, who expected, well:

But Tinkham and I had our eyes on the prize.

So we needed some tunes and some wine.

I had recently bought a very cool Panasonic boombox, one I was very proud of. But I wasn’t going to take it. The prospect of scaling walls and the possibility of being chased by the groundskeeper and his dogs made my decision.

Tinkham had a cassette player, but it looked like something you would find left behind in an abandoned school. So that was also out.

So he took his portable radio. Next on the list, wine…

We went into an off-licence on the way to buy the same sort of Chianti that my mum and dad would always knock back with Italian food.

The man behind the counter said, “Certainly, gentleman. And will we be having cigars with that today?”

We weren’t old enough to buy wine, but we were old enough to understand irony.

We left with six cans of Shandy.

On the walk, I sold Tinkham a rubber johnny I had bought from a vending machine at a pub I went to for dinner with my parents. He told me he’d have to pay me later.

We passed a group of about 5 boys heading in the opposite direction. One of them shouted,

Off to Tudor Hall? We might have left you a few.

They all laughed.

The bastards.

It’s been my experience that things rarely go to plan.

So we shouldn’t have been surprised that we got to Tudor Hall just in time for the start of the egg and spoon race.

The bastards. They were having a bloody fete.

And it was 20p to get in.

The grounds were packed, and, from a distance, the girls looked and acted no different than the girls at our school.

“It’s because their parents are around,” argued Tinkham, grasping at the fleeting gossamer threads of hope that were wafting away into the sky along with the smell of the spit-roasted pig someone was turning.

It didn’t matter anyway. After the shandies and a packet of Trebor Mints that Tinkham swore would make our breath smell nice, we didn’t have any money left. Tinkham still owed me for his rubber johhny.

So we turned around and went home.

We sat on a wall, drinking the shandy, pretending to be drunk, listening to Kelly Marie mock us on Tinkham’s crap radio. But the shandy wasn’t too bad, actually.

Soon, of course, the heaven’s opened up.

And so, the last two virgins in Oxfordshire walked home in the rain.

MEANWHILE, IN A PARALLEL UNIVERSE...

…two boys were sitting on a wall drinking in Chianti and the sun, having just shagged rotten a girl named Claire and her friend, and were listening to,

Good on you, lads…