Minions On A Mission
Love: well and truly in Oxford's air. Never was that stench stronger than on Tuesday night in Thirst, scene of RAG's speed dating event. The opportunity to ensnare swathes of nubile wenches at a single stroke proved too much to resist at Minion HQ, and so it was decreed: newly appointed OxStu Minions Three and Four were to assume the roles of itinerant Casanovas for the night, attempting to achieve pulling velocity with as many women as humanly possible. Two minions vs. an innumerable mass of female flesh. How could we fail?
We set out on the mission with fire in our hearts, booze in our bellies (Hertford bar: we salute thee and thy sting) and libido in our trousers. Surely it could only go downhill from there. Affecting an array of absurd characters, and engaging young harlots in the traditional teenage mating ritual, we plunged (with vivacity) into enticing pliable women into giving us their numbers (or access to their hosiery) despite the two pronged beard-face attack.
The opening gambit: "We're together. Fancy a threesome?" The inevitable answer: "Err, no thank you". Women one, minions nil.
Still, nil desperandum and all that. Once more unto the breach: "Will you show us your breasts?" Exactly how frigid are Oxford women?
The evening began as it ended, in a confused miasma of excessive libation, two lotharian heroes rolling up at Thirst fashionably late, quite literally champing at the bit for a taste of the quick fire, evolution-benefitting random female action-fest that is the modern phenomenon of speed dating. The ladies were not to be disappointed, either. I (Minion Three) modelled the blue velvet jacket, shirt lapels, chest wig and aviators combo, setting feminine hearts aflutter sophisticated player style, while Minion four, ever the smoothie, went for the sympathy vote, sporting the big sweaty beardy Northerner all-time classic look. Surely a perfect tag team sucker punch of pure romance if ever such a thing existed.
The flange didn't know what hit them. The erotic illusions of our victims were shattered by two piss-artists caringly suggesting a spit-roast, our formerly eloquent, varied and pre-planned personae lost in an alcoholic frenzy and replaced with raw animal something.
Fun though it was, we minions decided that we'd had enough before the official end of the proceedings. The conclusion was mutually reached that quite enough comedy sexual high jinxing had ensued for the time being. This decision was aided in no small part by the creeping awareness that we were scaring the girls. Mystifyingly, neither of us got lucky.
27th May 2004