Sad little boys: the backlash against Britain’s boarding schools

T he moment when his chemistry master pulled a pistol, declared it loaded and waved it in the air was “probably”, says Justin Webb, a broadcaster, the worst point of his boarding-school career. Winston Churchill would recall the floggings, done until pupils “bled freely” and screamed loudly. In “Such, Such Were The Joys”, George Orwell writes of being beaten so violently that his headmaster broke his riding crop and “reduced me to tears”.

That British boarding schools are odd places is not news. For several centuries and for fat fees they provided the English upper classes with a ripping blend of architectural beauty and physical discomfort; with neoclassical corridors and cold showers; with lashings of Latin and just plain lashings. The pupils they produced were an equally idiosyncratic mix of the sophisticated and the childlike, mingling precocious brilliance with speech that never quite left the classroom. It was a heady brew and Britain was intoxicated by it: of the 57 British prime ministers, 20 went to Eton. As Boris Johnson, one of their number, might say: “Crikey!”

Boarding schools are not yet in trouble. Their pupil numbers are relatively constant—around 70,000, owing partly to masses of boarders from abroad. But their charms may be becoming easier to resist. Elite private schools are a less secure route into the top universities than they were. In 2014, 99 pupils from Eton were accepted into Oxbridge; in the 2021-22 school year, it managed 47. (Brampton Manor Academy, a state school in London, had 54.)

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