Portora Royal School
|Motto: "Humanity can enter into a phase in which its true potential as a co-operative socirty of free, creative individuals can be realised." Marx|
|Anthem: Abide With Me|
|National Hero(es)||Queer Oscar Wilde|
|Established||King James the lad, 1608|
|Currency||Record Cards, Saturday Morning Detentions, Referrals|
|Religion||Anarchy, Sikhs, Animism, Handbraking|
|Ethnic groups||People of Fermanagh (Subgroups: Townies and Culchies), Foreign Nationals|
|Major exports||Writers, Playwrights|
|Major imports||Wee Kesh Chavs|
|9:00am sharp. Exponential decay of young minds will commence from 9:10am, and detentions will be joyfully and hastefully fired about the place|
“That puff Gary Donaldson went there.”
“Never mind Gary, finn Gebler was the biggest flamer known!”
“Eh? I went to the Tech. (The cocky idiot shouldn't have tried to lie his way out, we water-boarded him til he confessed he did attend-”
“Considering the fact I went to that school, my genius is ever more startling.”
Quaint and attractive as it may sound, Portora Royal School is actually an left-wing indoctrination facility on a barren windswept mountain in the backwaters of Ulster. It was founded by the good King James in 1608. Incidentally, the modest monarch declared on his deathbed that it was his only mistake.
Oscar Wilde and others were unfortunate enough to be exiled there, when Portora was a boarding institution which rivalled Eton and suchlike. Actually poor wee Oscar was shunned, insulted, and condemned by the cruel school-masters of his day, but due to a change in society's morals, he is now completely gacked over. The school also overlooked and indeed actively disliked the unfortunate Plebian locals, prefering to educate the children of stinking rich would-be sponsorers from Dublin, England, and the Empire, until someone decided this was a bit harsh. Now Portora is a wonderfully tolerant and all-inclusive place. Some past-pupils, however, still bear a slight grudge, in the 1960s, Portora castle was mysteriously damaged by dynamite. Past pupils have become famous poets, bankers, soldiers, TESCO employees, Neo-Nazis, and pop-singers. Portora embodies a wonderful diversity of interest, and we hope it will do for many years to come.
A Day in the Life of a Portoran
Portora boys are met by gates which looked to have been styled by the creators of Auschwitz. After a long and hazardous climb up the 35-degree incline, the boys are often met by the authorities asking them to "do up their ties" which have been forced down their shirts because of pressure from the higher altitude. Despite claims of 'Grammar School' status, Portora's classes are very regular and quite typical which makes a change from it's unusual mannerisms. The school decor is often confusing for Portorans as it varies drastically throughout the school. The front end has a historical feel and was built by men with body odour and hammers, where as the modern and slightly tacky back end of the school was built by graduates of the Duke of Westminister with tools they bought from Asda and stuck together with cellotape, hence the lack of insulation. The promise of school lunches keeps many Portorans going through often disturbing lessons, however it fails to deliver lacking in taste, seasoning and whatever is supposed to be in the dish. In a list of the 5 most rubbish things in the world I'd have America's foreign policy at five. Aids at four. Iran's nuclear programme at three. Gordon Brown at two, and finally, towering above the rest, Portora's school lunches at number one. Like many things, Portora's annual 'Christmas Carol Service' has become entirely pointless. People now believe the choir to be boys who ordered special seats for the service as they have been not able to distinguish them as choir boys because of their distinct lack of singing. If the sound produced by the choir of 80 boys were to be compared to an animal, it would not be a lion, or an elephant it would be a wasp, both harmful and irritating in equal measure.
Portora has recently invested in officials who have cleaned out all the old, dusty teachers who have long expired their sell by date and invested in new, modern teachers who are worth a look at. Unfortunately, this has meant that the school has been unable to provide sufficient funds to successfully heat the school during the cold winter months. The teacher replacement scheme was remarkably successful with new teachers providing some interesting scenery in the previous dreary classrooms.
Recently a new law was enforced on the comrades of this establishment, whereby the
peasants students must arrive before 9:00am for registration, otherwise a late will be given. Two lates in one week and its off to Gulag.
The reasoning behind the imposition of this seemingly preposterous law was widely criticised, resulting in the mighty hand of the Arch-Viceroy Papa Smurf authorising a repeat of the Red Terror, and therefore a severe lack of students left in the sixth year. Jonny Rice once tried to date rape Papa Smurf, he failed and Papa smurf still hasn't forgotten to this day.
This law was created and is enforced for very good reason. Loosing those precious five minutes each morning catching up on the undone homework because of Facebook, or having an intense game of pool in the common room, results in a devastating amount of time lost. Failing to arrive at registration before 9:00am will result in a loss of around 65820 minutes in the school day. Blatantly unacceptable.
Jonny Rice didn't pay for registration, he gave blowies to get his way in.
Portora is a very sporting school where many activities take place, such as Rugby, Rowing, Pool at Donaldson's, and going to the shop during lunch. As is tradition in the UK, Portora has felt the need to import "foreigners" to take sports in school. This has had mixed results inside school. After initial success, the schools rugby skill level has dropped dramatically leading to the consequent disgusting knock-out by the cretins from Omagh Academy. Rowing, however, has continued to develop. The rowing crew have had successful indoctrination policies similar to the policies Hitler used in the 1930s with similar results. Anything in your house that can fit in a bottom, will have been in Jonny Rice's if he has been anywhere near your house. We can only hope that in the not to distant future, that the rowing club will crash and burn like Hitler's Third Reich.
The Sixth Form Purges
Inspired by Stalin, the Arch Viceroy decided to eradicate unproductive workers and possible enemies. Anyone with dodgy looking AS levels was forced to drink castor oil and transported to Gulag labour camps in the Derrygonnelly vicinity. Theirs is a miserable existence, cutting turf, digging graves, planting spuds, and donating their hair to make pillows for impoverished children in West Meath. However a few lucky vagabonds were deemed worthy of a new, albeit more humble chance in life, and are registered in courses at the South West College. Ostracised by their former comrades, they vent their frustration by driving their Peugots and class-looking Corsas in circles around the rain splashed dismal streets of Skintown. The Arch-Viceroy has high hopes for his selective guinea pig year, soon to be taking their A-levels, and hopes that they will bring glory and honour to the West of the Bann region which many Belfasters believe is steeped in academic ignorance.
The War with Collegiate
The Arch-Viceroy Papa Smurf is rumoured to be in the middle of war of education theory with the Empress of the Green Collegiate clones. The Collegiate is a right-wing Conservative brainwashing centre for females on the other side of town. The hapless maidens are fed with incode messages forcing them to work their guts out to get 'A's and to aim to be lawyers. doctors, and the like. Making your own career plans below 18 is taboo. Recently the Arch-Viceroy took part in a lightsaber battle with the Empress behind Pat's Shed at 3:30. The valiant Papa fended her off, by hitting her with an in-depth summary of the post-primary schooling situation in Fermanagh, enough to make anyone cry tears of despair and frustration. 'Til next time...