Rage Against “The Cuts”

Everyone’s talking about “the cuts”. Every news broadcast, every current affairs programme, they’re all about the dreaded “cuts” and we all want to know how deeply we are going to be cut into. Complain, complain, complain, and of course I used to complain about them too, vociferously and with good reason, but that was a long time ago. But I’m not talking here about governments expecting their citizenry to live within their means; I’m all for that kind of cut in a way and I wish people would stop whinging about having to make their earnings go farther.

The “cuts” I bitterly lament take me back to my school days in the late 60s and early 70s when I attended an International Secondary School in Central Africa. Of course it wasn’t a school for local African children; the prohibitive fees saw to that. We were all white: Americans, British, Dutch, (white) South Africans, Australians, Scandinavians and me, the token Irish person viewed on a par with the Italians and Portuguese, all the children of privilege whose parents were living the life but didn’t know it until they were booted out of Africa and had to return to their own countries where they were nobodies.

The “cuts” were always the topic of hushed talk at St Whotsits, a topic that intrigued and terrified the younger boys who nevertheless considered it to be a mark of distinction to be known as a friend of one of the older boys who had “been cut”.

Now don’t go thinking that we’re talking circumcision here because we’re not. “Cuts” was shorthand for the administration of a particularly painful, humiliating and vindictive punishment meted out for such demeanours as smoking, fighting, telling lies, talking back to teachers and, horror of horrors, being seen down town on a Saturday afternoon out of uniform.

If convicted, a boy would be referred to the Vice Principle, the whipping master, a short, stocky Welshman. Taffy.

Part of the punishment was the anticipation. Taffy never administered the cuts on the day of the offence. He liked to give his victims the opportunity to reflect on their crimes, informing them of what was going to happen, and then giving them an appointment for a week later when they were to present themselves to be cut.

When an offending boy arrived for his appointment he was always left in the corridor to wait for a while before Taffy invited him in, reminding him of his offence. The boy was then asked what he thought of what he had done and only then would the flogging begin. All very decent and civilised.

The whip was made of a series of inch-long leather pouches packed solid with cotton and strung together to form a weapon over a metre long – all carefully constructed to inflict pain and damage. It was soaked in some vile smelling liquid to keep it supple. Six lashes on the (mercifully clothed) buttocks was the standard sentence, but for particularly outrageous offences you could be recalled a month later for another session once the initial damage had healed over.

And it was all very clinical. Taffy always apologised after the event and assured his victims that it had hurt him just as much as it had hurt them. Later in the day the punished boy had to have his shredded, bleeding butt scrutinised by the school nurse and Taffy. They viewed the wounds like true professionals, detached and clinical, discussing the oozing welts as if they had been the result of an accidental fall, and asking if the boy felt alright. The boy always knew the right answer to give.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you “The Cuts”.