The Art of Blagging
A few weeks ago a female friend of mine sauntered to her weekly tutorial, somewhat late, having done less work than a disabled sloth. As she walked through the grand doors of Wadham, however, her classics tutor took one look at that anxious face and immediately ordered his pupil straight home to take a week off. Why? Well, this young lady had mastered the technique commonly known to you and I as "blagging" - a skill harder to learn than Welsh and more invaluable than a rape alarm in John Leslie's house. What had she done? Quite simply, this mistress of scam had made herself up in green eye liner with talcum powder in place of foundation and not brushed her hair, instead arranging it tidily in a scruffy nest on her head. Not a particularly original move granted, but one which a good half of the population (men) couldn't use - you see fellas, this is what I like to call the 'girl card'. The 'girl card' generally involves carefully placed cleavage being displayed prominently to susceptible male tutors in highly precarious situations, for example, when said sex has not written essay. Hair can also be used in suggestive ways, being twisted around an angled pen, occasionally getting stuck for effect and high pitched whines being sounded in distress to distract attention from said 'essay'. For those less fortunate members of the human kingdom who lack breasts, there are other, less gender specific knacks to get your way through life at Oxford. An underused but sure-fire modus operandi which is neglected by a good 50% of those at Oxford is the 'Northern' or 'State School' card. Use it and you're sure to bring any tutor, no matter how thick-skinned, close to tears, reducing them to an emotional rubble. Play up the fact that you were raised in a card board box in Sheffield, having only taught yourself to read after forfeiting a week's food money to buy a second hand copy of Tolstoy. Use words like 'underprivileged' and 'Eighteen years of Conservative cuts', emphasising that your school was under funded and damp, with a pupil to teacher ratio of 87:1. Having used it in, what can only be described as a disastrous tutorial, I have become acquainted with the power of this formidable trump card:
"So Paul, do you recognise the parallels between Machiavelli's Prince and Blair?"
"I'm sorry. No. In my school the mice ate a lot of the books and we couldn't afford any more."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Ummm, let's see, yes, you, David..." Sorted.
There are two schemes in the art of blagging which can be used in restaurants. The first, most obvious, involves the effortless "It's my friend's 21st today. Would you be so kind to bring over a cake". Free of course. The second is a little more daring, not for those who are shy at making a complaint or squirm at asking for a discount. Whilst in Quod a few days before writing this light hearted rumination, I tried COIFB. To those novices in the art of blagging COIFB stands for Choking On an Imaginary Fish Bone and entails the perhaps by now, obvious move of pretending you have a small, (and obviously invisible) fishbone stuck perilously in your throat. Although cruel, it does reap excellent benefits; I was naturally invited back to Quod: free of course, and had a healthy reduction in my bill. Suffice to say, I'll be trying that one again.
There is but one fundamental tenet which all must adhere to when blagging one's way through life and it is this; go to any ends to cut corners: there's nothing more satisfying than realising you only have to do half the work, pay half the bill by making other people feel guilty. On this note I'll leave you with a little tale from my sister to illustrate this point perfectly.
"Emma, where's your maths homework for this week?"
"Well Miss, there was a fire in my house last night in the kitchen and because your husband's (a fire fighter) on strike it f**king burnt didn't it!" Sweet.
27th Feb 2003