What happened to us three unlikely lads on our forced return from an illegal forced march to Oxford in the ungodly hours when the whole school was slumbering peacefully beneath two army issue type blankets has been documented in these hallow pages before - three six of the absolute bests in PE shorts, three very sore and sorry boys - but, what preceded it, or at least as well as my memory these days permits.

So, the plan.

This,for all intents and purposes was meant to be a daring do Commando style operation that ended up as anything but as most of the time was spent in the wrong county, in totally the wrong direction and what looked suspiciously like another continent together.

Now one mustn't take these midnight sorties too lightly for we spent many hours planning every last detail in secrecy which basically meant three jam sandwiches and making sure we left through the right gate.

Anyway, and after trying every gate in the school we eventually left by the right one which turned out to be the wrong one - the Wardens gate - and totally in the wrong direction altogether which would have meant Oxford via Wales, or possibly North Devon.

Four hours later however we entered Chipping Norton for the fourth time and left it by the same way that we entered it- for the fourth time - and had to ask some drunk the way to Oxford who wanted to come with us as he'd never even heard of Oxford before and, come to that, neither had we by the way things were turning out.

So,on we trudged until trudging gave way to staggering until staggering gave way to almost total collapse as we burrowed our weary souls deep into a damp rat infested haystack and prepared to die either at the teeth of ravenous rats or, just simply, a noticeable shortage of jam sandwiches and Tizer.

Finally we managed to survive the rats - and there was even talk of eating one which would have been a welcome change from them eating us - and strung out in single file like a length of frayed rope we hauled ourselves through Summertown praying to be caught and taken back to KH, Dixie Dean and his iced buns or, at a push, his plum duff.

Then, just as all seemed lost, a cruising police car invited us in for a ride, doorstep sandwiches and steaming mugs of sweet tea and a warm bed in the cells as an irate and very unhappy Mr Phelps drove out to collect us in the school bus - a beat up bull nosed Morris that didn't much like the idea either - and took us back to Matron, a good check over (" here, swallow this " ) then, after we were all deemed as fit enough to face Woollan and six apiece in our PE shorts.....well, you know the rest !

Dizzy D

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