Prince George starts at Eton this week, and so far I have read in the national press four different accounts of what he can expect when he gets there. I am now well-acquainted with the terms “divs”, “Field Game”, “Judy’s Passage”, the “Colours Test”, the “Burning Bush” – the latter of which refers to a lamppost – and have grown nauseous from the gushing over the world of opportunity that awaits him (as if any opportunity will ever be denied him).
Forgive me, I must have missed the memo that decreed “Eton: good” because I was still under the impression it had a few problems. For the past decade (and, really, several of the decades before it) popular opinion has been decrying the dominance of Old Etonians in government, and the arts, and every other sphere of influence in British life, and how it has contributed to much of the country’s ruin and inequality. Yet we appear to have reverted to fawning about this marvellous, enviable, uniquely well-rounded education, which is nowadays so very international and incredibly diverse and, don’t you know, inclusive of students from all walks of life, some of them even from council estates!
Now, look. I am not so obstinate that I cannot recognise the obvious, immense benefits of an Eton education – the facilities, the grounds, the variety of subjects and the access to public figures for speeches and debates are all astonishing. I grew up reading The School at the Chalet, so like anyone else whose schooling is best described as “ordinary”, I understand the voyeuristic intrigue of those old-fashioned, clandestine little worlds. The thing is, though, in order to enter Eton world, you have to depart another. The real world.
