One of the first things you realise on arriving at Eton is that while you may be at arguably the best school in the world, you’re also possibly among Britain’s most hated. It’s great being surrounded by 15th-century quadrangles and Georgian boarding houses, and your uniform is as dapper as it gets. But you can’t walk into Windsor wearing a college crest, for fear of being mugged, and the papers are filled with stories claiming you’re overprivileged or not actually that clever. It’s a double-edged sword. You have the advantage of a brilliant education, but bear a stigma that can’t be removed no matter how many times you pretend that you vote Labour.
This makes you wonder — if the outside world hates us so much, how come Old Etonians (OEs) do so well? The Prime Minister, the Archbishop of Canterbury and the mayor of London are all OEs. Not so long ago, the consensus was that the golden age of Old Etonians had ended with Harold Macmillan and Alec Douglas-Home. Why, then, do people still vote for them?
It might be to do with the fabled quality of Etonian charm — or as it’s sometimes called, the ability to “oil”. And no, it’s not on the curriculum. But to succeed at Eton you do have to use a certain amount of persuasiveness, whether it’s arguing your case to the headmaster when you’ve done something wrong and you’ve been put on “The Bill” (report), convincing your “beak” (teacher) not to give you a long “EW” (piece of homework), or talking people into coming to your house play when they might have something better to do.
Right from the start, you’re encouraged to think and act as though you’re already a grown-up. Distinct in patterned waistcoats, Pop, the school’s elite cadre of prefects, are able to distribute “tardy book” (a punishment where you have to get up early to go to the school office) as they see fit. In neatly furnished offices, The Chronicle, the school magazine, runs a profitable business. Nearly every night, a plethora of speakers, the leaders in their field, come and speak to boys about their subjects. Sometimes, Eton seems more like a mini-university than a school, which means, you could argue, that you’ve already got a five-year head start on your rivals when you arrive at university.
On your first few days as an “F Blocker” (first year), the school can be pretty daunting. The ties are a killer, getting lost is a certainty and, as you can see, there’s a special language you’ve got to learn. But after a week, Eton seems natural. You do your work unsupervised and when you want. It’s from being trusted with this early independence that Etonians become so fit to cope in the outside world. They have to find their way without any help from others.
People often say Etonians are recognisable because of the confidence they exude. I suppose it comes from ease in conversation. From what I’ve seen, Etonians are brilliant at buttering people up. There are lots of opportunities to practise it. Whether it be dinner in your housemaster’s private dining room, taking a visiting speaker out, or cooking supper at your tutor’s, you’re often participating in conversation with grown-ups.
Of course, there is a minority for whom this confidence turns into arrogance. You’d think that a school whose alumni include everyone from Shelley and the Duke of Wellington to George Orwell and Prince Harry would be obscenely snobby, but the opposite is true. Etonians quickly learn to tone down their snobbery, if only because playing it up is considered a bit “oiky”. Arrogance is stamped on. It’s hard, anyway, to get too big for your boots in a school where no matter how great you think you are, there’s always someone smarter and richer.
The result of this is a competitive meritocracy, at least within Eton’s walls, where no one cares much what your father does for a living. Lots of boys come from backgrounds where they need bursaries to help with the fees, but you’re very much judged on your achievements. That’s why in “Trials” (school exams) you’re told exactly where you’ve come in your year in each subject (e.g. 135th out of 252).
If I had to guess why Etonians do so well, it’s because the whole school is a sort of dress rehearsal for real life — or the sort of life Etonians can expect to lead. When you find yourself on “The Bill”, trying to justify your actions to the headmaster in the oldest schoolroom in the country, it’s eerily similar to arguing in court. When you’re rallying round your house captain at a crucial house football match, or chanting in unison with your housemates, hitting bins in noisy support, it’s like MPs waving their order papers in support of their party leader.
Recently, I found myself watching the scene in the 1981 TV version of Brideshead Revisited where Lord Sebastian Flyte tries to charm his way out of being arrested for drunk-driving, and I realised just how little has changed. People want to hate us, but in the end they can’t resist us. It’s like Dermot O’Leary said the other day: “We trust an Old Etonian in this country. We just do — even if we don’t know we’re doing it. It’s bred into us that they can run the country.”
By arrangement with the Spectator
