Student council. No incantation or spell could have such an immediate and  potent effect: these two words seem to evoke in the average Pauline an instant and powerful cynicism. Waves of laughter ripple out as scorn pours from a great height on self-important delusions of significance. Earnest members defend the barbed attacks that come from all angles, desperately promising they are not just assiduously burnishing their UCAS forms and are indeed committed to representing the opinions of the student body. I should know. I just became a member.

So it was with some  uncertainty that I entered my first meeting. In the absence of hard information, the Pauline mind begins to wander and speculate on the devious goings-on taking place behind the door to E6 on Monday lunch breaks. Lengthy discussions of the softness and absorbency of Pauline toilet roll? Incisive debate about the merits of refill pads punched with four rather than two holes? Cutting critiques of lunchtime pasta texture, boil-time and sauce consistency?

My first meeting did not entirely persuade me that the caricature was erroneous. We didn’t discuss the sensory qualities of loo roll, yet I still felt slightly anxious we were not actually doing anything productive; the greatest debate seemed to be over who should go and get the tea from the kitchen. Upon arrival, I immediately seated myself in some far-off corner in the vain hope that I would not attract any attention and would, therefore, be able sit in comfortable silence without being called upon to voice an opinion. Of course, my fellow ‘new kids’ all had similar ideas and we ended up in a subservient throng as far from the senior members as Room E6 allowed. None of us dared risk disturbing the awkward atmosphere by getting up to annex a biscuit. I sat and listened as we discussed the possibilities of more computers in the upper-eighth common room and the upcoming meeting with the High Master.    Observations came to mind but were instantly dismissed; I was convinced that any argument I could possibly construct would be smoothly shattered by a quick response. I was silent, but not entirely comfortable.

Consequently, my own perceptions of the council were mixed. Yet, with each meeting I diligently       attended, despite my worrying lack of self-confidence, I began to realise that the council really does have a role in our lives as students. In pursuit of this controversial opinion, I spoke to Cyrus Imregun who is the head of the council, and Mr Wilson, the observing teacher alongside Miss McLaren. It came to light that the student council was not the result of an heroic student uprising, as many have been led to believe, but instead was formed on the ‘prompt of the inspectors’ in 1995. So it wasn’t exactly the school’s idea, then? Mr Wilson diplomatically informs me that the school rapidly realised that ‘more input was needed from students’, so the council was formed under the supervision of Mr Taylor (surmaster at the time) and later Mr Williams. Another tick in an inspector’s mark book? Well, Mr Wilson assures us that the moment it was formed, the council began to influence our image of school today.

Prior to my interview with Mr Wilson, I believed that most of the council’s resources and manpower had gone into putting clocks in the changing rooms. But this time, my preconceptions fell away as it was revealed that the council was heavily involved in creating the changing room we know and love today, the upper-eighth common room (used to be the music school) which I am yet to know and love, the changes in eighth-form uniform and finally eighth-formers being allowed to go home when they have no lessons in the afternoon. Ultimately, the council has had a very large hand in defining who we are as eighth-formers; where would we be if we could not sneer at fourth-formers hard at work in Geography as we leave school at three o’clock dressed in super-sharp office dress? It is just a shame that the ‘errant member’ who seriously suggested a room dedicated to ‘nap-time’ is no longer at the school; otherwise the whole student body could link arms behind him in support, following the revelation that the student council might just have a purpose after all.

A good day starts with a good breakfast, but a Pauline’s may consist of anything from a dusty, fluff-covered fruit gum from the bottom of Fred’s bag, hurriedly chewed en route to Biology, to a wholesome bowl of organic muesli accompanied by a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice. However, I suspect that many a lovingly assembled mummy-power-breakfast, whisked into salubrious existence from the choicest health foods to imbue the child with that mythical blend of mental agility and sporting prowess, is severely undermined by a tuck-shop binge at morning break. There, gathered around the stained, sticky and awkwardly squat tables, Paulines great and small indulge in a bag of McCoy’s or a Crunchie.
The more discerning eater heads to the dining hall for his mid-morning sustenance, where a greater selection of hot snacks is available for delectation. Then there are the lucky few who are packed off to school each morning with a nutritious oatmeal, yoghurt and fruit concoction or a tasty cheese-and-cucumber sandwich. Their mums evidently love them more than most, yet instead of flaunting their succulent wares for all to see, these boys surreptitiously cower in the changing rooms and corridors surrounding the atrium, guardedly clutching their tin-foil bundles. They try desperately to conceal that grub which betrays a perceived puerility, and often resort to strolling around, trying to look nonchalant in an attempt to communicate that they have no choice but to eat a home-made snack today, because they’re just so busy. The flaw in this scheme lies in an invariably undersized perambulation radius, resulting in a scary upper-eighth noticing the perpetrator on two occasions (ten minutes apart) and directing at him a crushingly condescending chuckle. What this underground cult of secret eaters needs to realise is that it looks more stupid trying to hide Mum’s food than it does eating it.
When the lunchtime bell rings at 12.35, the ground floor of the school boils into a hungry hive of activity. With the inevitability of the turning tide, the tuck shop refills, driven by an alarming mass-addiction to BLTs. Meanwhile, the dining hall bursts into life as the school’s primary nutritional hub. With so much peculiar activity surrounding its daily use, I imagine it would be a gold mine of psychological data for behavioural analysts. The feeding frenzy is abated by a strict but fundamentally flawed queuing system whereby careful manipulation of peers and employment of stealth tactics can yield a front-row place at the pasta counter. Alternatively, adepts of deceit (often drama students) may opt to fast-track forwards by means of the salad bar’s considerably smaller, if not, non-existent, queue. First, however, they have to find a way of bypassing the teachers’ checkpoint. Having searched ostentatiously for a particular but bewilderingly absent meal component under the suspicious gaze of some of the male staff’s more intimidating members, these cunning pupils subtly infiltrate the hot food queue and skip triumphantly out past the cutlery.
The logistics of pudding acquisition at St Paul’s are so extensive and complex that they warrant doctoral theses. The canteen personnel are routinely defrauded as boys swipe double helpings right before their eyes and then return for more. ‘Sorry, I forgot to get one before’ is a tremendously effective line for obtaining a second dessert, and a godsend for those who like a choc-ice with their rhubarb crumble. Much to the fury of various teachers, apples and bananas are frequently grabbed before departure from the dining hall for consumption on the go, or for (hopefully short-term) locker storage.
Ravenous rowers and rugby players characterise the closing few minutes of lunchtime, and, although the overall activity level has declined, the furious bread-stuffing of exhausted athletes necessitates a comment on their gallantry; refueling is prioritised at the expense of lesson punctuality in a high-risk balancing act.
Whether it’s a spinach and ricotta salad drizzled with a walnut and balsamic vinegar dressing, Mummy’s granola delight, or a plate of chips, all Paulines need food, and plenty of it. So keep it coming.

Accents play an important role at St Paul’s. A student can be judged by his accent and loved or hated for it. A particular accent can be as significant an accolade as GCSE grades or a place in the rugby team.
Journeying through the lunch hall is the best way to experience the various vocal inflections of different Pauline groups. Just as accents differ from country to country, each clique has its own distinct brogue. There are the handfuls of American kids who speak in an accent that seems totally alien to ours. They also tend to drop in Americanisms such as ‘gonna’ and the abominable ‘like’ which has so insidiously crept into the dialect of today’s youth. These boys can be found discussing what Obama’s tax reforms will mean for them in an accent noticeably different from the normal English one.
On to a different table, a different group and a different accent. There is the broad London accent and then there is the London accent that has been carefully fine-tuned and practised to become the ‘lad’ voice. It is a deep, husky, faux-Finchley voice for the aspiring ‘hardman’. However, this is a tricky dialect to put on (and an even harder one to pull off): too strong and you sound ridiculous; not strong enough and you sound less virile than your peers. Consequently, risk is kept to a minimum by speaking as little as possible and a streetwise edge is added with the latest and greatest slang courtesy of Urban Dictionary.
Another accent is the ‘Polished Pauline’, a Kensington and Chelsea lilt. The average pupil who belongs to no specific social group speaks this way. They mainly discuss homework, football and iPhones (almost life-support devices for the ‘OMG’ generation). It is an accent that may seem the norm at St Paul’s, but is painfully laughable when spoken outside of school.
Students tend to start St Paul’s with an astonishing malleability and an accent that may change on a weekly basis like a fad. One week you have to talk like this and the next you have to talk like that. However, the biggest influences are the teachers and not your peers. Throughout a student’s academic career, teachers will be the people you hope to respect the most. As such, their accents can shape yours; it’s all very complex.
The staff’s range of accents is the most interesting, and different intonation can make or break your lesson. They can excite and enthral (Hear: Dr Hudson), startle with stentorian boom (Hear: Dr Hills) and mercilessly bore (Hear: department). In fact, our teachers might even serve as a diverse phonebook of different accents. Filed under ‘foreign’ could be our countless teachers who have arrived from over-seas. One of the most prominent teachers on this list of international accents would be Mr Feinburg. He travelled across the pond to teach Paulines the joys of finance, geography and public-speaking, bringing his intelligent American twang with him. Another famous teacher’s accent is that of Mr du Toit. The fifth-form undermaster and formidable rule-enforcer is one of the most revered teachers around. While his imposing physique and friendly yet no-nonsense demeanour are big motives for respect, the deep Johannesburg drawl certainly helps.
A Pauline is most vulnerable to influence during his first year; as a fourth-former, one is eager to fit in and impress. However, students tend to settle into an accent as they spend more time at the school and with each other. By the upper-eighth most students’ accents are indistinguishable from each other. While this accent may go unnoticed at St Paul’s and any other London day school, it is certainly not the most common accent in the country. Outside of school and at university, the Pauline accent will definitely be judged.
But what do the teachers think of the accents at St Paul’s? They certainly notice and definitely form opinions. Mr Lowden agrees that fourth-formers change their accents the most; they ‘need to represent themselves as certain sorts of people’. Paulines can also be quite self-conscious when they speak. They adopt certain tones to fit in with everyone else and develop accents such as ‘the bus voice’. Mr Lowden also thinks that boys use the most fashionable words to back up their accents. However, the self-consciousness fades, the latest words and phrases are forgotten and each finds an accent he is comfortable with.

Whilst enjoying a jaunty, pre-school amble past a sombre Monday-morning common room, on my way to be told I am ‘a golden pillock’ by a certain Physics teacher whose identity shall remain unknown, I stumbled into a state of wonderment. The Montgomery Room, the Halley Society, the John Churchill Society, the Milton Studio… These famous characters, after which elements of our school are named, are known across the globe. But what of the countless other Old Paulines, lost to the dusty archives of time? My quest shortly began in earnest.
Let us begin with a bang. Peter Carew (of absolutely no relation to Aston Villa’s Norwegian centre-forward) was a controversial figure in sixteenth-century England, with an infamous reputation as a buccaneer. Attending SPS in the 1530s, he was ‘a frequent truant’. He left our noble establishment in order to enlist in the French army but was demoted on numerous occasions. He then undertook a series of Bond-like escapades, defecting to the Prince of Orange, and then turning once again into the service of Henry VII. In 1540, he travelled to Milan, Venice, Vienna and Constantinople on a rather extended stag night, and turned to subterfuge in Turkey, having been forced to paint his face black with soot and posing as an aluminium merchant. After fighting the French again in 1544, Carew was knighted, but quickly undid his hard-gotten gains by fleeing from ‘hired bravadoes’ around Europe after angering Queen Mary and Philip of Spain. He was eventually captured in Antwerp and was held in the Tower of London until December 1556. Carew then mysteriously evaded the archives until 1568, when he travelled to Ireland, claiming most of its southern counties were his by right (using rather obscure and suspicious documentation). Here, over nine years, he was the cause of many minor wars and massacres, pitting neighbouring noblemen against one another, until Munster was in ruin. More than slightly irritated, the queen recalled Carew, granting him some land in Cork, but he died in Waterford in November 1575. Peter Carew, a Flashmanesque figure, was clearly quite a character, but perhaps not the best choice of Old Pauline to use as a career template!
My next unknown OP is Indra Roy Lal, an Indian fighter pilot during the First World War. He was only twenty when he was killed in battle, but is a prominent hero in the history of the RAF. The son of Bengali parents, he was attending SPS when war broke out in 1914. Desperate to join up, Lal was commissioned as a second lieutenant only five months after turning eighteen. He was badly injured after crash-landing his SE5A fighter in June 1917, but in typical ‘let’s-just-patch-you-up-sonny-and-get-you-back-out-there-in-time-for-the-scrummage’ Pauline fashion, he returned to active duty just a year later. On his return to the skies, Lal achieved a record-breaking ten victories in thirteen days, including three kills in four hours on 8th July 1918. Unfortunately (but probably ‘about bloody time’ for the Germans), Lal was shot down on 22nd July over Carvin, France. He posthumously received the Distinguished Flying Cross. The only Indian flying-ace in history, Indra ‘Laddie’ Lal was a truly impressive Old Pauline.
There are numerous other decorated heroes who emerged from the melting pot of Apposition, H Club and atrium. SPS boasts three Victoria Cross holders: Captain R Nesbitt, Major C Bromley and Major O Watson, the last of whom won the medal for holding a trench all alone against a vastly superior German force in France, March 1918. His small force saved the line, but Watson was himself killed covering their withdrawal.
It would, however, be unfair to assess lesser-known Old Paulines based only on a military basis. Many OPs have distinguished political and administrational records. Thomas Gresham, founder of the Royal Exchange, attended SPS in the mid 1500s. George ‘Hanging Judge’ Jeffreys, who was a pupil from 1659-1661, was a notable figure in Stuart England. Despite ‘raging alcoholism’ and ‘kidney disease, which affected his temper’, he rose to become Lord Chancellor and later Lord High Steward, in part gained through an infamous reputation for a penchant for execution (JMS, beware…). Other key OP politicians include Spencer Compton KG, Prime Minister from 1742-43; Joshua Toulmin, a nineteenth-century religious fanatic and dissenting minister; Thomas Clarkson (SPS in 1775, where he was ‘an excellent student’), a leading anti-slavery campaigner; and Cecil Clementi Smith, a colonial administrator, who ‘was effective in quelling Chinese secret societies in Singapore’.
On a last note, I am obliged to mention leading OP musicians, hopefully giving inspiration to those haunting the Wathen Hall that luminaries such as Rob Manzoli, the lead guitarist for Right Said Fred, started a long and distinguished musical career at SPS. Other historical musicians include Maurice Greene, ‘Master of the King’s Musick’ from 1735; William Boyce, who held the same position; Dennis Brain, a horn-player of worldwide fame; Alexis Korner, a blues musician; Chris Barber, jazz band leader; and Ben Watt, a record-selling DJ.
In conclusion, I hope that this humble article has given you current crop of Paulines a sense of history, a background to the people who have left these hallowed buildings and gone on to achieve great things in a musical, political, military or maniacal context. And who knows… one day, there may just be a ‘Fox Gallery’ located behind the Milton Studio, where shells of worn-out printers are left to rot.

Every adolescent, teenager and pre-pubescent in the world aspires to be ‘cool’. Our generation is a ruthless one: those who are different are shunned; those who stand out from the crowd are sneered at; those who have decent moral standards and strive to uphold them are ridiculed.

So how does one become an expert in the art of being cool? This is the question that millions of people around the globe have struggled to answer throughout the acne-infested horror that is teenage life.

The most crucial visual aspect of being cool is clothing. Nike’s corporate advertising leads me to believe that to be worshipped by my peers, donned      apparel should sport more ticks than Dominic Yeo’s maths homework. Trousers found riding above the knees are considered too high and each individual item of jewellery worn must weigh at least twenty kilograms. However, at St Paul’s this is simply not the case. A good case study would be Mufti Day; wherever you look you see Ralph Lauren here, Abercrombie there and skinny jeans nigh on everywhere. Evidently the infamous St Paul’s superiority complex has produced the sentiment that Paulines are far too cool to wear what Jay-Z wears – the usual rules do not apply to them.

Having established that St Paul’s resides in a hugely exclusive region of the ‘coolness scale’, entirely separate from that occupied by the rest of the world, we need to find out how      Paulines become cool in relation to their peers (making the Paulines who reach the top of the school’s coolness scale technically the coolest people on earth).

The second most prominent aspect of being cool is how you act. It is a simple fact of life that those who partake in sporting activities are cooler than those who do not. Those who excel at sporting activities are cooler still. This is   indisputable: it is a trend that has manifested itself in every great Empire that has ever ruled the Earth.     Conversely, people who avoid sport (unless they are involved in some sort of banter elsewhere) are highly uncool. This lethargy at lunch break, in  combination with a coffee held in a limp-wristed hand, is nauseatingly uncool. The inactive coffee drinkers in question have absolutely no reason to be drinking that coffee. The fact that they are not playing any sport invalidates the excuse of physical fatigue. The fact that they are not at a      rehearsal/writing an article for a magazine/at a society shows that extra-curricular activities are not swamping their time. The fact that they are not frantically    trying to finish a piece of homework for period six shows that they are not under true pressure as regards to homework. The fact that they have time to sip slowly on a coffee proves that they do not need that coffee at all. They think it makes them look like an adult, but it is clearly a desperate plea for attention. And the best part is that they probably hate the taste.

The final, yet possibly most imperative, part of  being cool is everyday speech. The majority of Paulines communicate with high levels of eloquence. Throw in the odd slang word and you’re undoubtedly at the height of coolness, but what is certainly not cool, is ‘organised slang’. This is like organised crime only much, much worse. I will explain with an example: the other week I was walking through a corridor and   overheard the following conversation from a group of fifth-formers:

Ringleader: Okay, guys, we have to start speaking in a cooler way. From now on, let’s not call each other ‘idiots’. We have to start using the word ‘derkhead’.

Minion 1: Great idea, you derkhead!

[Assorted giggles and snorts from the rest of the group.]

Ringleader [being entirely serious]: Good work; at least you’re using the right terminology. Oh, and     another thing – from now on we refer to my house as ‘Lad Central’.

Now, this is almost the definition of uncool. This is a prime example of why the current fourth-, fifth- and sixth-formers are essentially a large group of social   misfits who must be guided down the narrow,       treacherous road that leads to coolness. There are many road signs trying to lead them astray, such as Starbucks, Sloane Square and Razorlight, but it is our duty as eighth-formers to teach them how to achieve coolness, just as our      forefathers did for us. Most importantly, we have to nurture their talents in the art of banter.

Alternatively, we could just ignore them entirely as eighth-formers so often do. Unlikely as it may sound, they’ll probably be able to work out the secrets of coolness for themselves. If all else fails, there’s always What’s Hot/ What’s Not.

As we all well know, Physics should only be handled by lab-suited future rocket scientists and Classics only by those with well-cultivated beards. Although beard decisions are largely taken away from us by the school rules, many of our other main life choices hit us during our tender school years. Whilst I do not intend to encourage you to harbour prejudices or reinforce stereotypes in this article, I do think it is sometimes useful to look at what your subjects could become in their most extreme manifestation. If you choose a subject beyond GCSE, you must have more than a passing interest in it. You very quickly become not just a schoolboy, but a fully fledged mathematician or biologist. That entails talking with them, having lunch with them and, in the eighth form, even dressing like them. It’s not long before you think like them. It’s not so much a choice about your interests as a choice about your lifestyle.
Many of the decisions we make at school are important and may well determine our career. For some, the choices start easy and never get much harder. Most of the subjects at GCSE are chosen for you; it’s a matter of deciding which subject you hate the least. At A level you know it’s either arts or sciences and university requirements dictate the rest. I want to be a doctor. Sorted.
For many, the decision is made difficult early on. Paulines characteristically have such a wide range of interests that, even as early as GCSEs, the choices can be daunting. Do you want to do Greek or Geography GCSE? Luckily the decisions don’t come much more imperative than that. And yet, at A level, for these people, the decisions only create more sleepless nights and nail-biting drama. And, by the way, ‘keeping your options open’ is only a means of delaying the inevitable. I would know; I still haven’t chosen between arts or sciences. ‘Don’t worry;’ we’re always told, ‘there’s still time.’
Our teachers like to pretend that they don’t mind what choice we make, that it is ours to make and that they won’t judge us either way. Don’t get me wrong, when it comes to the eighth form you will have made your allegiances to your subject. You could have made your pledge either to the goggle-wearing, ball-bearing physicists or to the high-flying, hoity-toity economists. You might be passing a mysterious pipe round a camp circle in the art room or reading under moonlight without sleep beside fellow historians. Whichever way it is, Brother Bear, you have chosen your path, your totem.
That leaves the last decision made at St Paul’s, as you discover ultimately the most fundamental reason for the school’s existence. Each and every Pauline rises up from the ashes and takes flight to university. By this time, the choice will have hopefully been narrowed down to a small selection. Time is now beginning to run out. The very nature of university application makes you look forward as far as employment. Unfortunately, life does continue after the drunken gap year on the beaches of Malaysia. Now is the time to wonder if there really is a balding statistician lurking somewhere inside of you. Do you want to make it big in the city? Perhaps instead you want to do something you actually enjoy. Because, by the time you’re the early-retired businessman nonchalantly driving your midlife crisis car, talking through a hands-free to your secretary, it’s too late. Rich, yes, but bored. That’s it. Your time will be up.
That said, your future employment is not the immediate decision being made here. In fact, it is just a distraction. It is your degree subject that needs to be decided at school. Possibilities unavailable at school, such as philosophy or law, appear for the first time. Joint honours, although possible, require levels of effort unknown to your average Pauline. For most, the decision is narrowed down to one subject. All those hours of work doing irrelevant subjects really were wasted. All that is left at the end of it all is the impossible soul-searching question: what do I do with myself? Amazingly, everyone does find an answer and leaves the place at the end of the upper-eighth. If the bizarre and varied personalities of years past can find answers for themselves, I’m sure we can. Surely, that in itself is empowering. The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one term or even one year, but, Paulines, I have never been more hopeful than I am today that we will get there. Yes, we can.

Let the battle commence. In a short while, our upper-eighth-form comrades will begin to be enlisted for their duty across the country to beguile their way into a decent university in some attempt to recompense the outrageous sums of money spent on their education. There is little point in lowering morale by reminding them that ‘never before has competition been so fierce to get into the top universities’. Only I just did. What I do hope to accomplish is finally to include the Pauline perspective in response to the currently heated media debate on the subject of weighting favouring independent-school pupils.

Mike Baker, Education editor of BBC News, recently wrote an article in which he asks, ‘Why should leading independent schools, like St Paul’s, feel so threatened and hostile to a scheme to encourage bright pupils from poor homes to get into good universities?’ [tinyurl.com/5zpgvs]. This shows the typical viewpoint that, since Paulines have access to such good resources, they should step aside for state-school pupils who, although achieving less in their academic careers, have stood out more from their peers. This is not speculation; a leaked handbook to every admissions tutor across Cambridge advises that ‘seven A-grade GCSE passes by a pupil from a poorly performing school should be treated as equal to eight A* passes from a highly selective school’.  Certainly, the average Pauline who is rejected from Oxford or Cambridge has earned eight A*s at GCSE and straight As at A level.

At this point some would ask, ‘What is wrong with this? Certainly going to a private school is bound to affect your results’. However, the problem lies in the fact that the weighting has been taken too far and for the wrong reasons. Firstly, the suggestion that it should be harder for pupils from ‘selective’ schools to get into university is unjust, seeing as simply to merit admission to one of such highly selective schools implies worth and should not be used as a fault. There are few pupils at this school genuinely aspiring to study at the ancient universities who are not working near full capacity towards their goals, and certainly this is due to a mixture of individual ambition, expectation from the school and parents and the culture for hard work this school has always had. Conversely, most state schools do not have such a culture or such an expectation for hard work, and quite reasonably, as a result, pupils there may take a more relaxed approach to their studies. It is, of course, fair to say that it is not the fault of attendees of these state schools that hard work is not demanded – but is it really fair to decide that students at schools like St Paul’s do not deserve extra benefit for their efforts, simply because they were made to take them? Should it really be the case that hard work is simply acknowledged in such a way that Paulines are placed right back on the par with many state-school pupils who, although obviously intelligent and motivated, could easily have put in fewer hours over the years?

A clear symptom of the increasingly impervious nature of university admissions is the new phenomenon known as the ‘UCAS whore’. It is no longer sufficient for a Pauline to score flawlessly in public exams and nurture a private hobby; the last two years of the school have now become a mad rush to be on every school committee, commit to every play, play every instrument and, most instrumentally, charm every teacher into writing a glowing UCAS reference. Although this might seem like a positive thing, the UCAS whore is the bane of every sincere school organisation and it really shows that Paulines are being forced to go into hyperbole in the leaps and bounds they must jump through to stand out from state-school pupils who worked harder than their peers.

‘I believe that if you place any student in St Paul’s they are very likely to perform well. If you were to place that very same candidate in a deprived state school they would perform under the national average.’ [Lewis Smith].

I do not wish to be misunderstood; of course I realise how advantaged Paulines are to have such exceptional teaching and resources, and I even believe that in a case of university applicants, identical except for their background, the state-school pupil should be chosen. However, what we should never accept is the assumption that, as you may remember from your first assembly in the fourth form, it is St Paul’s magic dust that is responsible for success, and when you labour into the early hours of the morning, it is easy for you to do so, simply because your school expects it.

I have been brought up in a way that makes sure I’ll never forget my great Indian roots and for that I’m very grateful. For example, I have roughly one hundred aunties and uncles, and every time I meet them, I bow down and touch their feet as a sign of respect; one of the three meals I eat in a day is (without fail) daalchaawal or rotisubji; and, about every two weeks, my family and our friends go down to the Staples Corner cinema and watch the latest Bollywood Blockbuster. I’ve watched Bollywood films all my life, and not once have I ever lost any interest. Ask me to name ten Bollywood ‘heroes’, and I’ll reel them off in eight seconds. Ask me to give ten Hollywood names, and you’ll see me edging slowly towards the computer for Google. So, now I consider myself to be a seasoned and experienced expert on Bollywood and by using the sharp tools I’ve picked up over the years of watching films, I’ve set up a failsafe formula for making a Bollywood blockbuster.

Step 1: Make sure you have two brothers in your story. These two brothers should be separated at birth and grow up on different sides of the law. It is important that the law-breaker should suddenly turn over a new leaf before the end and bash up the villain (who is the ‘real’ bad guy). He will be pardoned for all his sins before the last-scene family reunion.

Step 2: If the number of heroes is not equal to the number of heroines that you’ve hired, there’s no need to worry! Just have the excess heroes/heroines die or join the Red Cross (and, therefore, move to Switzerland) before the end of the movie. Note: If there are two heroes in your movie, they should fight each other savagely for at least five minutes (ten minutes if they are brothers).

Step 3: It is extremely important for a masala blockbuster to feature at least three chartbuster songs, even if they bear no connection to the story of the film. You may find that you will be able to attract a much larger audience if you have a major superstar feature in one of these songs as a dancer.

Step 4: If you decide to have a court scene in the film, your script MUST include the dialogue ‘Objection milord!’ at a climactic moment in the plot. If the hero or his lawyer says it, it should be overruled.

Step 5: The hero’s sister has to marry the hero’s best friend (ie, the second hero). If you decide against this, the villain should ‘abuse’ her within the first half hour, and she should commit suicide as a result.

Step 6: If your film features an adrenaline-pumping chase, the hero must always overtake the villain, even if his mode of transport is by foot or bullock-cart. Although you may find a fast and slick sports car will be more desirable if your film is aimed at the young male demographic.

Step 7: In a shootout, when the hero fires at the villains, he can never miss or run out of bullets. But when the villains fire at the hero, they must ALWAYS miss, unless the hero is required to die. If the hero is required to die in the script, the death sequence must be filmed in slow motion with the hero centre-screen. What I have seen works best is if the hero stands with his arms outstretched, as he is continuously skewered by bullets, whilst holding a facial expression similar to one after an epiphany. Next, the hero slowly falls to his knees and then to the ground, followed by a heart-wrenching scream from the hero’s wife.

Step 8: Any fight sequence will be very effective if it takes place in the vicinity of a stack of pots, barrels and glass bottles, which will be smashed to pieces.

Step 9: If the film involves lost and found brothers, you should include a song sung by the brothers and another song sung by their blind mother. The blind mother should then regain her sight at the climax of the film.

Step 10: If you decide to have a police inspector in your film, he can only fit into one of three categories. He can either be scrupulously honest, which works best when he is the hero’s father and killed by the villain. Or he could be honest, but always chasing the anti-hero (who grew up on the wrong side of the law), saying ‘Tumkanoon se bachnahinsakte’, only to pat him on the back near the end of the movie. Usually this inspector’s daughter is in love with the anti-hero. Or you could decide on the corrupt inspector, who is usually the real villain’s sidekick, and is brutally beaten up by the heroine at the climax.

Now, before you go off to become the latest hit director of the year, I have a word of warning. What I’ve noticed over the past decade is that more and more films are being released which are genuinely of very high quality and are very entertaining (we’ll take 2008 as an exception so far), and these films haven’t followed the above steps. Examples of these films are DilChahtaHai, Rang De Basanti, MunnaBhai M.B.B.S and TaareZameen Par. These are the ones that have proven to be my favourites, and so it just goes to show how the Indian film industry has really blossomed and matured over the past decade.

In 1887, a unique and exciting new language sprang into existence: Esperanto was created by the mysterious Doktoro Esperanto (a pseudonym of L Zamenhof, who dreamed of a universal language). It quickly gained popularity throughout Europe, prompting a large number of Esperantist magazines to be published and conferences to be organised worldwide.  Nor has its history been without controversy, as Esperantists have come under oppression from totalitarian governments: Hitler viewed Esperanto as an attempt by the Jewish diaspora to conspire against society, and murdered a number of speakers, while Stalin labelled it as ‘the language of spies’, treating them likewise.  Yet in 2008, Esperanto is very much alive, as there are various sites and publications for enthusiasts, as well as a World Esperanto Association with members in over a hundred-and-twenty countries.

Despite past controversy, there is a strong case for Esperanto being the most inoffensive means of communication, and the ideal world language, since it is unconnected to any other, and draws its vocabulary and grammar from linguistic sources across Europe and beyond.  While English has been adopted to a large extent as the world language, it has a number of drawbacks: its association with British Imperialism and particularly with the United States means that various other nations will resent using it, seeing it as a way in which western, English-speaking nations are imposing their habits on the rest of the world.  Esperanto, however, has none of these cultural and historical connotations, and its unquestionable neutrality makes it a better candidate for an international language than any other.

But why would we want a world language anyway?  Opponents of Esperanto frequently pose this question, arguing that individual languages form part of national identity and must not be undermined.  They claim that Esperanto’s lack of any irregularity makes it boring, and that natural flaws and inconsistencies give a language colour and life.  What these critics fail to understand is that Esperanto is not intended as a replacement for existing languages, but a global second language, which must be as straightforward as possible.  Esperanto’s simplicity fits this description perfectly: all nouns end in -o in the singular and -oj in the plural; all adjectives end in -a, all adverbs in -e, and all present-tense verbs in -as.  Words are formed logically by combining regular roots and suffixes, for example, mi amas (I love), amema (loving), aminda (lovable), amanto (lover).  Enthusiasts insist that any reasonable linguist can acquire a working knowledge of Esperanto in less than one week, again making Esperanto perfect as a universal second language.

James Linehan of the upper-eighth has a long-standing interest in Esperanto, so Black & White interviewed him about his opinions and experiences of the language:

When and why did you become interested in Esperanto?
I first learned of the        existence of Esperanto through a sci-fi book I was reading several years ago. I did a little research into what it actually was: a simple, elegant solution to an age-old problem. One of the things that particularly struck me was the rigid set of rules for word-building. You have a stem, say jun-, with an abstract concept (‘youth’) associated with it. Add the adjective ending -a to it, and you have juna, ‘young’. Or add the ‘person’ suffix -ul- and the noun-ending -o and you have junulo, a ‘young person’ There are suffixes for tools, places, anything you can think of.

How did you learn the language?
I started learning Esperanto by following an online course at www.lernu.net, but I also found an online copy of a book containing all the grammar and syntax rules, written by the man who invented Esperanto, Dr L Zamenhof. I learned the entire set of grammatical rules governing verbs (in all tenses), nouns, adjectives and adverbs in about ten minutes. No, really, it’s that easy! Since then I’ve read a few stories and a book, La aventuroj de Alicio en Mirlando (Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland), in Esperanto, which really helps to build up confidence.

How would you defend Esperanto against those who question the usefulness of an artificial language?
The basic premise of Esperanto is that there are many languages in existence, and life would be made much easier if there were one language that everyone spoke as well as their mother tongue.  An artificial language may not be a necessity in the modern world, but it would make life far easier for those who battle with English as a foreign language, as well as for English speakers who want to talk with people from many different cultures. Yes, you can learn a new language each time you want to talk to someone from a new country, but wouldn’t you rather learn one simple language than several complicated ones? And they don’t come much more complicated than English – even native speakers have difficulty with it!

I recently went to China for two weeks, and I have to admit that the tourist cliché is right – it is a land of contrasts. For me the Bund in Shanghai was the best example of this juxtaposition: the old trade houses and banks of colonial Shanghai opposite the new China, with the Oriental Pearl Tower and the neon-lit boats in the Huangpu River. On the embankment, wealthy, well-dressed Chinese men and woman went for luxurious dinners in some of the world’s finest restaurants. But there was an important difference between what I saw in Shanghai and a similar scene in Paris or Tokyo. The Chinese middle classes may be affluent, but they cannot vote. In fact, they are the wealthiest people in the world who cannot do so. As they stroll down the Bund, do they wonder what it is that Brazilians and South Africans have that they do not? Of course, they can vote for different Communist-Party candidates, and hypothetically even for independent candidates, but it is impossible to become an elected official in China without the assent of the ruling party.

This financial wellbeing is in part due to the Tiananmen-Square Massacre. The Communist Party refused to allow democracy in China, but, in return, the people of China were given increased economic freedom. They were promised ten percent growth per annum in return, and that is, on average, what they have got. China’s political classes are now presented with a problem: the current economic crisis.

Woolworths, a mainstay of the British high street, which escaped the depths of the Great Depression, is in administration. It is the largest retailer to get into serious financial trouble, and it is also one of the retailers that is the most reliant on Chinese-made products. Woolworths’ products are discretionary; they are not necessities, and it is Chinese factories that produce them. If Woolworths cannot sell its stock, China is not getting paid. Although China is trying to break free of being the producer of Fisher-Price toys and cheap knock-offs, this is still what it makes a lot of, and if consumers are tightening their belts and spending less, it is Chinese-made goods that will suffer. What is happening to Woolworths is representative of what is happening globally, and China will suffer as a result.

China is linked to the world economy ever more than it otherwise would be, since its currency, the Yuan Renminbi, is tied to the United-States Dollar, so much so that, in order to preserve this relationship, the Chinese have bought $850 billion dollars. If the dollar devalues, the Chinese have much to lose. If they ever get out of the dollar, selling up, they would cause a run on the dollar, which they themselves would lose from. China is intimately tied up with the rest of the world. Bill Bryson once wrote that ‘If Americans all simultaneously ran out of storage space, the world’s economy would fall to its knees’. It is not storage space but credit allowances that are filling up, and China will feel the pinch, as westerners are unable to buy their products. As global demand wanes, China will rely increasingly on its growing domestic market, but still it will find the next few years difficult. The Beijing Olympics were not China’s entry on to the world stage – this economic crisis is.

The Chinese middle classes, the people that lost the most politically but gained the most economically, are not going to get their end of the deal. The question is: what will happen to China politically when the economic outlook is not so rosy? We in the west have a serious challenge ahead of us, but no one is suggesting that the current political systems will collapse to such an extent that we will end up under some dictator. We do not know what will happen in China. When I visited I spoke to a Chinese official who could not conceive how the United States held off revolution in the Great Depression. This is the first genuine test of the Chinese ‘Socialist Market Economy’, and I predict that there will be serious instability. As well as wealthy Chinese people wishing for greater control of their country, there are the innumerable Chinese peasants who have not seen any change in the last two decades of growth. The sad fact is that all the wealth from the rise of China is centred in the cities of Hong Kong, Shanghai and Beijing, and the people that have been left out in the cold feel hard done by. While we in the west restructure our financial systems, the Chinese will restructure their political systems.