The riddle of the Spinks…
Exhibit: David Cameron: Heatherdown independent preparatory school and Eton
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Wilson, the nervous 18-year-old student trainee engineer is shown into the waiting room – although “shown” is rather a strong word for someone opening a door, throwing the words “Mr Spinks will be along” into the room beyond and then disappearing. It is definitely a waiting room, there’s nothing else to do therein. Compulsory dark brownness up to waist-height, “hint of nicotine” smoked walls, wood block flooring and a pair of chairs that he naively considers to be a pair of chairs.
Waiting begins.
He sits. The chairs are wooden, reflecting his mood, rectilinear with leather clad seats well buffed by the buttocks of previous waiters. The single squab-dimple between the two wooden side rails must have been gradually formed by generations of squirming, single-buttocked supplicants. Not only does his seeming rare double-buttocked bum bridge the hollow so both cheeks rest on the rigid rails of the narrow-gauge seat track, but, on leaning back, he finds he is still leaning forward. He stands. A visual check shows that the seats are horizontal and that the backs are vertical. However, re-sitting confirms that it’s necessary to lean forward just enough to be uncomfortable to avoid v-e-r-y slowly sliding down the invisible slippery slope.
Pressing back into the seat, he self-amuses by looking out through large, old fashioned sash windows that also look out onto large, old fashioned Nissan huts. Indian summer sunlight streams in. This is good. Indian summer infra-red also streams. Not so good. The massive brown cast iron radiators under the windows radiate, evaporating the old leather. He sweats. It passes the time. However, as more time passes, simply sweating and breathing leather begins to pall.
Slipping into the shade at the side of the window feels a little lurky and somewhat sidle-y, so he walks about a bit with wrong-trouser ka-lumps from the army surplus boots that, whilst brand new, were, apparently, surplus. They come in 2 sizes, slightly too small and slightly too large. If you have a choice, choose the latter as your feet will eventually grow into them as burgeoning calluses pack out the spare space, rendering your feet boot-shaped. Manufactured from stiff leathery leather with the texture of pebbledash, they come with hobnails that tap. Presumably, since tap-dancing is not very army, this is presumably a design feature to facilitate marching in time, a built-in click-track.
So, back to the “chair”. He’s just worked out that the best way to sit is side-saddle with one buttock in the dent, an arm over the back of the chair to stop the sliding and is almost not uncomfortable when there’s a door handle noise.
End of self-amuse due to a sudden very acute awareness of his highly unusual seated posture, a tableau from a very niche cabaret.
He swivels on the buttock-seat-dimple bearing to face the door. Enter Mr Spinks, 5′ 4″, beaver posture, 80% bald, gnarly stick, gnarly green-yellow-green tweed jacket, moustache and in charge. “You must be Wilson” he commands, stiffly tapping across the room and disappearing into the adjacent office. After a short pause, Wilson decides he ought to follow.
Mr Spinks must once have been blonde but is now silver-grey with urine highlights. In charge of apprentice training, he is not only in charge, but also very much “in charge”. Ex-army, as stiff as an English upper lip with the social skills of a cricket bat, he is set rigid in his type-cast. Only 2 months out of school, Wilson hasn’t yet had the opportunity to grow his hair long enough to be “a bloody long-haired disgrace” a “girl”, a “hairdresser” or even to evince the ambition to be “a nancy”.
However, as an 18-year-old student engineer he is 2 years older than the usual apprentices and, as the first the MOD has ever appointed, a novelty. Mr Spinks finds novelty, or anything else post 1927 India, a challenge and probably a disgrace. Mr Spinks is, however, definitely in charge. He decides to smile, or so Wilson surmises as the moustache stirs, as do the nasal hairs that blend seamlessly into the nicotined lip bristles. He opens with “I’m in charge of your training” and follows with an interminable sermon detailing the rules governing said training. Attitude, times, places, attitude, “command structure” (the pecking order), hair length…
The sun still shines, but the light seems increasingly tired.
Wilson stands behind the Spinks chair to be shown an example of how to fill-in the log book. The reek of ancient, stale tobacco wafts from the smoked green tweed beneath the slightly frayed shirt collar. where the freckled pate blends imperceptibly into a fine collection of blackheads at the nape. Whisps of old underpant escape between collar and neck to join the Spinksian plume rising on the hot air.
…
Hair retention
In Spinksian philosophy, unlike his own nasal or otic hair, scalp hair must be minimised. Excessive hair (anything longer than a number 3 shave) was a sure sign of dissolution and degeneracy. Whilst the other apprentices are in the process of growing longer hair, Wilson has a head start with considerably longer locks and an incipient beard.
Much mumbling from the man in charge: “Degenerates… fought in the war… nancies like you… bloody regulations for civilians don’t even mention hair! Fabric of society – must do something. Bloody poof…”
The dim bulb of an idea forms, brightening his eyes and sending a waft of eau-de-cunning through the air. “Ah! Yes, health and safety; machine tools in the area; hair caught; pulled-in, dangerous… Must wear hair-nets, they’ll never want to wear nancy hair-nets. Only option – cut hair. Got them with that! Yes, yes…” His stick stabs out to impale imaginary enemies of society (Punjab, November 1926). The rule is posted: “All apprentices in the workshop must wear hair nets at all times”.
Hair pressure has been applied.
To Wilson, the way Spinks behaves has made him an embodiment of all the bigoted, bullying authority figures in his life. Simple resistance can’t be enough, he needs some kind of anger ejaculation, a release, a form of displacement revenge. The mother of one of his fellow “degenerates” works in a hairdressing salon. Wilson suggests he bring back a bag of the most feminine, colourful and decorated hairnets that he can find.
The next day, as usual, the Spinks taps into the workshop where everyone is proudly wearing excruciatingly pink, yellow and blue floral hairnets. We had never seen anyone actually apoplecticulate before. No words, just noises, face inflating like a blood blister followed by rapid taps fading into the distance. Wilson feels a self-congratulatory “fuck you” glow, a glow that is quite unbecoming of a gentleman.
…