Catch us if you can
Champagne and canapes. Rivers of gold and mountains of hardcore pornography. Freaks and fly-bitches. Big fuck-off diamond rings hanging from every orifice. They're all yours, apparently, should you have the gumption to just walk in, take what you want and walk out, sneering triumphantly as the sweating masses bicker over the prices of their rabble fodder.
This seemed to be the message of Steven Spielberg's latest opus, Catch Me If You Can. Do what you want, no matter how improbable, exude an air of breezy confidence about it, and no-one will even think twice about questioning you. And it was this that occupied Alex's and my thoughts and conversation as we stepped out of the cinema on that dank, cool night. The time and place all conspired to conjure up that strange realm where stupid thoughts could pose as good ideas.
"You know," said Alex, "I bet if we followed in Father DiCaprio's footsteps, we too could be rolling in cash and equally knee deep in pussy!" It was at this stage that my attention to Alex flagged and I made a huge mistake. I agreed with him.
Five minutes later and we were sat at the bar of the Goose, Alex downing Pretty Polly Stockings with feckless abandon, as I, a boringly committed teetotaler, contemplated what had just happened, tried to work out what on earth I'd just agreed to. The plan it seemed was to waltz into colleges, take what we wanted and make no apologies for it. Oh, and pay for nothing. And to add a little spice to it all, we would leave our University cards and every other form of identification behind us. No prisoners.
"It's not like it's stealing or anything", Alex slobbered as he wiped the last strands of Polly from his lips. Quite what it was, if not stealing, he didn't see fit to elaborate upon. He placed one hand firmly around my shoulder and grinned inanely. "Tonight" he said, "We set aside the meagre firmaments of our everyday lives! Tonight we soar, we fly: like eagles on pogo sticks!"
Thus, bouncing our way over the street in a not entirely unobscene fashion, we found ourselves at the gates to what Alex considered would be a place full of gullible mugs: that most academically austere of colleges: St John's. "It's a Friday night," Alex whispered, gazing up at the spires, "there HAS to be something going on here tonight." Wandering in, we were wafted along by an odd smell - that of the 1920s. The smell of Roquefort, wine and moronic rich people permeated the air. Noel Coward, apparently, was in the house.
We found ourselves in a smoky room full of women wearing pearls and too much make-up, and drunken old men. My favourite combination. There was music playing and glasses of wine lying around. We sauntered up and helped ourselves to the cheese. We started talking to the ponces. I couldn't believe it; no one had challenged us to explain just what we were doing there. Alex seemed perfectly at home aswell, regaling the old men with fictional tales of his escapades at Eton. Glancing at his watch, he seemed to feel we'd wrangled all we could from this place. Damn. Just as I was getting settled in.
Balliol was next, but here we were confronted by two gatekeepers. There was, they told us, a bop on tonight, so we'd need a member of the college to sign us in. Without blinking, Alex bent down and signed himself in as Jurgenn Beckham, adding an equally spurious Balliol friend to boot. Enthused, I did the same. I think I was Sarju Mehta.
Wandering into the bop, we were accosted by a man who insisted on squirting vodka down our throats. "That's what I was talking about!" said Alex as he choked the vile stuff down. Alex also decided, at this point, that he wanted a memento at this point. He pulled out his camera and sought out the prettiest group of girls. "Can I get your picture?" he shouted above the escalating din of the Vengaboys. One of them, not unreasonably, inquired politely why.
Alex seemed stumped. No one had asked him why before. I jumped in with the first thing that leapt into my frazzled head. "We're writing a piece for the Oxford Student. It's about, err... college bops." Maybe Alex's confidence had rubbed off on me - the answer seemed satisfactory. Alex was right at home directing his nubile harem into various compromising positions. He still has the pictures somewhere.
Having, myself, finally got into the swing of things, we attacked Trinity, Exeter and Jesus colleges with equal vigour. I lost Alex to the temptations of some nubile harlot along the way somewhere. The next morning, I woke up in a bath. The walls looked vaguely familiar.
Oh Jesus. I was back at my own college.
27th Feb 2003