Roseworthy Agricultural College
I enjoyed my years at Roseworthy Agricultural College. I was much older than most of the other first year students except for the only other “colonial” boy there, Peter Whitlock, who had been born and brought up in India and had also worked before coming to college. He and I got on ok but I suspect he thought I was a bit arrogant. This might possibly have been true as I did feel that my stint in the Northern Territory had given me an experience few of the others could equal. This did not however, I maintain, merit his revenge. I still wore my big impressive, curly brimmed 10-gallon hat around university. In my first year, as we were castrating and ear-marking some young cattle, I bent over to pull the testicles out of this young bull calf and as I did so Peter leaned over and ear-marked my hat. Those curly brimmed hats only stay upright because of the circle so of course the whole hat sank around my eyes. I could have killed him- if it had been an older hat or an ordinary Akubra it wouldn’t have mattered but now it was ruined. I tried sewing a piece of leather in the gap to restore the brim but it didn’t work and I was forced to buy another, much less impressive hat out of my slender resources.
Generally, my choice of clothes were a point for teasing at college. Not only did I wear beige, suede desert boots- which were almost unheard of in rural Australia- but I also donned brown corduroy trousers. This was my greatest sin in Australian eyes- such foppish workwear was the province of “poofters”. However, by dint of rearranging a few arms and faces, I soon brought about a change of opinion and I had very little trouble when I wore my cords after that.
I had also had already gained some credence with my fellow first year students for getting rid of the time-old tradition of first year “fagging“. Roseworthy had been founded in 1883 and no doubt the founders had been good Victorian gentlemen who had gone to English public schools where such things were considered the norm. Thus it had become part of the fabric of the college that first year students were to be at the beck and call of third year students and do their whim without murmur. Such servitude was to start with a painful and humiliating initiation ritual to be administered in their first few weeks of college.
Since I had arrived early I had heard of what was awaiting me and I was not keen on the idea. Because my mother had such influential connections I was one day invited for tea with the vice-chancellor of the university and I decided this was an excellent opportunity to tackle him on the issue.
“Isn’t it about time you got rid of such out-dated and Victorian traditions?” I asked. I pointed out that “fagging” had been outlawed in most English public schools and it seemed a bit ridiculous that Australian universities should be lagging behind.
He looked a bit taken aback.
“Well yes of course I agree with you dear boy, but I’m not sure how we are going to stop it. Such activities have never been backed by the college…it just happens.” He smiled serenely at me and changed the subject. I realised I would get no real help from him and if I didn’t want to be initiated I was going to have to take matters into my own hands.
After doing some research I realised my greatest ally was superiority of numbers. By chance our year was one of the largest intakes on record and there were about 31 of us. In contrast the third-years were one of the smallest and had been reduced to just 19.
In the first week, I marched into the student union and called a meeting of first years. I told them I didn’t think we should accept “fagging” or “initiation” and we had the numbers that meant we didn’t have to. Of course this point of view received fervent agreement as most of the 18 year olds were quite frankly terrified of the coming ordeal. I called in the third year representative on the student union and laid down our terms.
“We’re not going to accept it and if any of your boys make the attempt there will be a riot and we outnumber you by almost two to one.”
He too seemed a bit taken aback but defended his position robustly- they had all had to undergo it themselves and otherwise where was the fun in being a third year?
I proposed that we would instead hold a concert for the third years, during which they would be allowed to do whatever they wished in the way of heckling and throwing things like rotten fruit etc but then that was to be an end of it. That was our final offer.
He finally agreed. So that’s what we did and it was a great success. All of the third years abided by the agreement except for one South African bloke who was a particularly loathsome bully. He decided he wasn’t accepting it and he woke one first year up with a pitchfork and tried to drag him outside to do an initiation rite. He was a big fellow but not big enough to hold his own against the three or four of us who instantly attacked him. He soon saw sense and we never had any problems after that.
This incident gave me instant kudos with my fellow first years so I got on pretty well with everyone after that.
Mum and my brother Ted, dressed up for the races.
My mother also came out to visit me for a few months in my first year. She still had a lot of connections in South Australia as her uncle had been an influential figure in politics and society. As a result she was cordially invited to spend her stay with the headmaster of the college. However, she also got on very well with my washerwoman, Mrs Daley. And so after two or three weeks she packed up her luggage and walked from the large house with the extensive gardens, crossed the road to a row of workers cottages opposite “the big house” and moved in with Mrs Daley. She lived there quite happily for another three weeks or so.
It helped confuse the local populace. Nobody could ever really make up their minds as to whether we were “class” or not and consequently never knew where to place us in the social circles.
himalayan epiphany 