Mendelsohn's Misanthropy
I hate Oxford bops. They are, I think, the purest indicator of th kind of awful festering joyless- ness we are expected to endure at university. A bit of balding tinsel, some caustic "cocktails' and a spin of Sweet Child O' Mine do not bac- chanalian excess entail. Regular readers of this column must now be wondering whether am anti-fun. Quite the contrary, I assure you; I just have standards, which are, as chance would have i those self-same things one is man- dated to leave at the door of a bop The very name itself should surel be enough to instil the chill of the grave: bops are what children attend at the age of twelve, held in grim halls in which they learn to fear and mistrust the herds of the opposite sex, warily encircling each other as they wish they'd had the foresight not to have tucked into the free onion rings. It is this atmosphere that reigns at such events in Oxford too, with alcohol- induced paranoia and mirthless irony. Goodie gumdrops. University is meant to be the best time of one's life. If this truly is as good as it will ever get, it's time to eviscerate those arteries, kiddies. Foetid, synapse-devouring drinks line tables, decanted into plastic cups by the entz reps, glowing all the while like Chernobyl overspill. Ever wonder why you seem to e- spy so many mis-shapen and ghoulish human things lurking and gibbering in gloomy corners of the room? Years of exposure to this Oxford home brew and not enough sunlight are the problem. Yes, it's the scientists coming out to play. Their fiendish overmasters have unfettered them for the evening, unleashing them at the college bar. There are 50 other like- minded people, inspired by themes such as "cops'n'robbers', "nuns and vicars' or "autopsies and lonely morticians', or whatever other half- arsed scheme the organiser can dream up. The few people who have bothered have obviously expended their energies on cos- umes: now they sit at the sides, blank eyed and drooling, doubtless hinking about polypeptides. It all builds, as these things must, o a finale. The DJ has been work- ng the crowd by not crossfading his collection of NOW records. They're baying for party blood: he has to finish on a high note it's 11.15pm and the junior dean is stroking her knuckleduster. Inspira- tion strikes: Bohemian Rhapsody! The opening bars explode; the crowd wet themselves, they've never been so excited. "Scara- mouche BOOM". God has finally had enough and trig- gers the apocalypse early.
13th May 2004