Agony Lad: Week 0

Dear Agony Lad, I’m one of hundreds of Freshers about to descend on Oxford, and I’ve frankly never heard of you. Care to introduce yourself?

Never heard of me? Not likely. I am the Agony Lad, Oxford’s lord of lash, baron of banter and prince of pulling. Though I maintain my anonymity in this column, there are plenty of ladies out there who know me very… intimately. If you want to be one of those lucky customers, head to where the drinking is fiercest, follow the smell of Jägermeister, and I’ll be there.  

Oxford’s nightlife must be pretty tame compared to other unis. You can’t be that much of a lad; I bet you’re some reject who’s had a couple of WKDs and thinks he’s hard. 

Shut up you fucking mollusc. When it’s day six of Fresher’s Week, and you’re moaning about your hangover, and how you might “sit this one out”, I’ll still be necking rum and tearing up the dance floor with my Gangnam Style moves. Agony Lad practices what he preaches, and by that I mean I was drunk before you came to Oxford, I’ll be drunk while you’re at Oxford, and I’ll still be drunk when you’ve crawled into some investment bank to die.

I’m missed you and your laddish advice over the summer. What’ve you been up to?

Ah, I’ve missed you too. Oh wait, no I haven’t. Man up. Lads don’t miss, they lash. And that’s what I’ve been doing all holiday. From Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic, I’ve left a trail of empty shot glasses, broken beds and used condoms (it’s true what they say about European birds). I’ve also been doing a little work to fund my excesses; I’ve taken up plastering. Sorry, I mean, I’ve been getting plastered.

Agony Lad, after Prince Harry’s naked romp in Vegas, and the Duchess of Cambridge’s unfortunate exposure, I’m really worried about the integrity of the monarchy. Should the royal family be exercising more care?

Normally, mate, I can’t be fucked about this sort of thing, but it seems to me that Kate Middleton’s twins constitute the strongest argument against republicanism. Don’t get me wrong; it was some pervy shitlad who took those pictures, but that hasn’t stopped me printing them off on A1 sheets of paper and framing them on my wall. If Kate’s reading this, whenever you get bored of baldy, I’m waiting right here. Maybe get some implants first, though? And as for Harry, let’s just say that the world’s most laddish and blue-blooded ginger and I are very close friends. He wasn’t alone in Vegas, you know…  

So, your job is to guide us through our Oxford career, like a guardian angel?

Oh, fuck it, why not? I suppose, in the odd moment when I’m not downing a yard of tequila or breaking into London Zoo to arm-wrestle a hyena, I could give you plebs a tip or two. It would be criminal to know this much about seduction and reproduction and not share it. Just pray the shitlads at the OxStu don’t screw it all up (unlike big-balled class warrior Tom Beardsworth – true lad!). They’ve always been jealous of my lashability and bulging genitalia, and I bet they’re plotting to depose me. Well, let them come. I’ll show them the meaning of agony.

Agony Lad, what tips have you got to make Freshers’ Week truly wild?

Boys and girls, it’s time to get hammered, and then naked. Drink as much as you can, throw yourselves at anything with a pulse and always ask yourself, “What would Agony Lad do?” I’ll be leading by example, but here’s a few challenges for the most daring among you… Pull a tutor. Shag on a quad, in a library, or in the Bridge of Sighs. Have a threesome in sub-fusc. Get or give a handjob during the Matriculation ceremony. When I was your age, I did all four of those things. At the same time. Good hunting!