My Santiago

Strong arm in the Chapel Grounds (06/04/2018)

We settled disputes, Old style, in the old days, at our fine private learning institution. We fought each other, Till one had his face ground into the dust, And spat out “Surrender”.

Surrender it had to be, Nothing more nor less.

Abject surrender, Beaten, cowed, Then, best friends after that.

The colosseum was the Chapel Grounds, The plebs, curious students, Voyeurs keen for some biffo, lots of bluff and the odd gore.

And the combatants!

I’ve had the one or two, A rite of passage,

Beat up a latter-day friend, Ground his face into the dirt, Eked out abject submissions, Dusted my hands And rose - off my feet, To new status, Accorded only to - The victor. Did I like it? Hard to tell. Didn’t think much then; Guess not. But there was something So final about The face-grinding,

The abject surrender, The pagan conquest, The ‘bread and circus’ ambience, The legalised violence; It brought peace to some inner demon, And made ultimate sense.