Finals of a Diarist...
It's over. Coming out of exam schools there are crowds packing the street, balloons, camera flashes. I had been planning a celebratory dance as I passed out of the gates. I think of the opening scenes of The Naked Gun, where Frank steps off the plane and walks over to the assembled crowd and says "and you, all coming here for your story, probably think I'm a big hero, well, don't you know how much a man can hurt inside?" The police are pushing us to the side. There is St-Annes-New-Man, and my ex-girl-friend, and my long lost mate from home Dazed and Confused. Diamond Geezer hands me a spliff. "Rolled between the smooth legs of a virgin" he says. "Oh so you rolled it yourself then?" What happened next? In the last weeks my alcohol tolerance has been lower than any time since my uncle Alan gave me a sip of his sherry on my tenth birthday and then found me dressing up in my mother's clothes. Suddenly I am outside the Bodleian library, attempting to pour talcum powder on my friend Cappuccino Kid. A sudden gust of wind carries the powder over his head and covers most of the people on the steps. "It's gone in my drink you twat," shouts a random irate man, but it is OK because I am hiding behind a pillar. People are staring at me because I am covered in gell and glitter and powder and maybe because I keep trying to hug them. Somehow I don't throw up....
Columns: Ruby Perera's Graduate Guide
Having finally escaped the dull chattel of exams, I am able to bring you my Last Broadcast. I shall, sadly, be leaving your midst, and I fear for the Oxford sex life. Much as I have enjoyed making a contribution towards Oxford's journey out of its chastity belt, you're on your own now, and I am at the mercy of the outside world. In this, final column, I shall consider the sexual opportunities and pitfalls of the big wide world which awaits all us finalists. Of course, there are bound to be some advantages to leaving Oxford, sexually speaking. As I so often comment, we are very strapped for sex here, and outside they seem a lot more eager. ...
Columns: Oxford Quiz
<h5>1. Who won the boat race?</h5>
Columns: Knackered Chef
Cooking is thirsty work and drink is a pretty damn good first cousin of food. And, given that it is now summer and deadlines are about to become a thing of next term, this week I would like to focus, in a blurry way, on booze. Now, as much as food, alcohol has become deeply ingrained in our culture, and daily routine. Living on the High Street, I have come to detest the kind of behaviour that leads to an irrational passion for kicking over bins and the bizarre compulsion of pissed students to compete with each other as to who is on most intimate terms with the man in the kebab van. It is my conclusion that these alcohol-users have been drinking either the wrong type of booze (which I accept is a highly controversial suggestion) or they have been drinking it in the wrong way. There is also the pissobolity that these people are simply arseholed arseholes but far be it from me to make such superior assumptions....
Columns: Jack in the Ox
Jack (pronounced "Llama" since the 15th century) College is a small, friendly college full of small, friendly people, situated in the heart of Oxford's famous "Outskirts", which are right in the centre of town. Jack College combines a strong academic tradition with a weak academic tradition, and the resulting polar front means that the college is permanently under a cloud. Its students on the other hand, prefer to combine various substances in order to achieve the maximum high, and this is therefore one of the only colleges which can truly say that it encourages applicants for Joint schools....
Columns: Poetry Corner
Falling butterflies picnic by moonlight,