Does the fact that The Tab may be turning into an elaborate in-joke for about 60 people at this University mean that we can’t go and report some proper frontline news? Intrepid reporter Declan Clancy and trusty cameraman and veteran student campaigner David ‘Rosa Parks’ Douglas-Pennant, set off after lunch to see what all the fuss,which had woken us up in Emma so rudely half an hour earlier, was about.

‘Protest…Has anybody seen a Protest round here?’

Rumour had it that they were now at Senate House. As we get there, the crowd is actually pretty big. About 100 people I’d say, being whipped up by a rather flimsy-looking character in thick glasses standing on a pedestal. Most people here seem a bit young actually?

‘Year 12s, Jenna and Melissa, wagging off school’

Shit, half of Long Road Sixth Form appears to be on this protest. Most of them are wagging it, although one lad, ‘Dane’, tells us that his politics teacher told them if they wanted to go protesting he’d mark them in. He did also tell me that his cousin had already dropped out of her course “‘cos she’s worried about the rise in fees”. Not quite sure she got the right end of the stick. It is cracking to see the enthusiasm though. Imagine a lot of others may have just taken their protests to the pub, but the younger ones do give it a more jovial atmosphere. The Conga train doesn’t seem to go down too well with some of the proper political people here though.

‘Great, gives me an excuse to get my baton out then’

The policeman said joyfully, tense with excitement. He’s got that classic dick-ish sense of over-importance. Obviously just wants to cave a skull in. These are mostly kids, you prick. We see one rozzer headlock a very disgruntled protester. He was one of the first over the Senate House gate, but his radical edge is somewhat softened by the fact that he has a satchel. We go talk to some more of the Five-0. They won’t answer questions about what they think about the cuts. Not even the ones with kids. One of them does suggest that there may be a couple of ‘undercovers’ in the crowd who have been with the protest from the start, feeding the police information. It does seem a little heavy-handed seeing as the only crime we’ve observed so far is some underage smoking.

‘Hula Hoop? Why the fuck has she got a hula hoop?’

Other novelty items include a man who has brought his saxophone. I bet they don’t have men with saxophones in London. They’ve probably laid the Commons under siege or something by now. But wait – on second thoughts, what’s this guy getting out of his bag? Is it a flare? A smoke bomb? The packed lunch is an anti-climax.

‘Juan’s on the pedestal! He says the afterparty is in Fez. The Rozzers have given him two bottles of Tequila and a table’

Actually meet some Cambridge students. They say it’s the only the start of the fight. There is a bizarre atmosphere developing, wavering between frivolity (mainly supplied by sixth formers), and over-dramatic statements emanating from those standing on the pedestals with megaphones. Is purple hair a compulsory requirement for membership of the Student Communist Party? Even though I do agree with them being here, and respect what they are doing, it’s a bit cringe when someone shouts down a megaphone that somehow this is connected with the Iraq War. Even the lad next to me with the Anarchist flag feels that that link might be a little tenuous.

‘The grass really is greener on the other side’

I go for it over the fence into Senate House; everybody else has by now. Worried about someone Patridge-esque getting stuck on a spike. The police aren’t even stopping people going over. Some of the chancellors appear to have come out to have a look but no one is approaching them. We’ve probably disturbed lunch. It appears no one really knows what to do now. One of the megaphone-wielders declares that now ‘we need to work out what we want’. Not the greatest call to arms. Someone get the whiteboard and the markers out, and let’s work out why we’re here.

Fuck that, let’s just make up some more chants about Clegg getting bummed.

One protester takes it up the bum

From: ‘Dave’
To: ‘Queen’
Subject: Huzzah!

Dear Ma’am,

So chuffed to hear the spiffing news. Got it today halfway through Cabinet. Let me tell you, all the boys were hollering, cheering, and banging on tables. We hadn’t kicked up such a fuss since Boris ploughed his Rolls half-cut through that gypsy camp! Good to see Nick and Vincent got involved too; wasn’t sure about that lot at first, but they’re showing themselves to be top class fellows! Everyone was jolly excited. I felt it was appropriate for Binty to bring in the 81’ commemorative doilies and chinaware to have celebratory elevenses! May have got a little carried away on the clotted cream so feeling a little icky now, but all in the name of Queen and Country I suppose!

Anyway, hate to be a bit of a party pooper, but there are a few little things I need to tell you about the wedding bash. So you may not have heard but we’ve dropped the ball a tad and kept some Arabian fellows in that American camp for maybe a little bit too long. Turns out they were innocent after all, and are a little bit peeved off about the whole thing! They’ve started acting up and threatened to spill a couple of SECRETS (i.e. What happened to ‘her’ that night in ‘P’ with that salesboy from ‘H’ on the way back from ‘T.R’ in the ‘M’) Whoops! So, we may have had to dip a little into the ‘Babykins and Big Willie Royal Wedding’ fund. It shouldn’t be too much of a problem – just a few less ribbons for the corgis, etc. George will send you over the plans later.

Lots of love,

Dave

__________________________________________________________

From: ‘Count Chocula’ gosborne@toryhq.org
To:  ‘Dave’

David you utter cunt can you stop referring to yourself as ‘Dave’. It’s embarrassing us all.

That shit-for-brains grandson nearly fucked it all up didn’t he? ‘Are you excited for the wedding Will?’ ‘The timing is right’. That is not the right answer! We printed out a brief and sent it to him last week for fuck’s sake. Some good news, though – that Diet Sloane bint of his seems to have understood my little hints about toeing the line. Thought giving her Diana’s ring would make her understand. ‘Are you excited Kate?’ ‘I am daunted’. Perfect. She won’t be giving us any problems after that. Sending wedding plans over to Q now. Also, can you please tell me how to get rid of this ‘Count Chocula’ thing on my emails. It wasn’t funny at school, and it’s not funny now.

George (Chancellor of the Exchequer)

_________________________________________________________

From: ‘Count Chocula’ gosborne@toryhq.org
To: ‘Queen’
CC: ‘Dave’
Subject: ‘Official Wedding Plans’

Dear Ma’am,

Presume David has informed you of the current financial problems we are experiencing. In light of this, attached below is the revised plan for the wedding. Just a quick note, we’ve moved it to Hyde Park this year. Hope you don’t mind.

11 am: Meet at The Frog and Finger Pub in Hyde Park (Leeds). Landlord (Terry – possible MBE?) says he will keep the louts out for at least half an hour. All guests will receive 1 free drink each, anyone who tries to take any more will be ejected (someone tell Harry to bring a coat).
11.30 am: Wedding Party will enter two processional coaches (32 seaters) and will slowly travel along a road to Kirkstall Civic Hall. Everyone owes £1 for the coach.
12 pm: Arrive at Kirkstall Civic Hall. Wedding Party exits coaches (taking all litter and drinks with them) and enters. Miss Middleton should arrive soon after, accompanied by father, in ceremonial Transit Van, compliments of Terry the landlord (Definite MBE). Official photos by Kirkstall Gazette.
12.25 pm: Coaches move wedding herd to Hyde Park Working Men’s Club. Gourmet buffet, including finger sandwiches, volauvents, and mini sausage rolls on arrival. Strict orders that anything not eaten will be bagged up. Free Bar starts.
12.50 pm: Free bar finishes.
1.30 pm: Prince Philip’s speech. Press Blackout. See-Enoch Powell, ‘Rivers of Blood’.
2 pm: Locally renowned DJ Kane West takes over Entertainment. Couple’s first song: R.Kelly ‘Bump ‘N’ Grind’.
1.30 am: Last Orders at bar.
2 am: Coaches leave to return to London. Roy, the driver, reserves the right to refuse entry to anyone fighting or being sick, and will not condone drugs on board. Alternative Travel Lodge booking/transport home arranged for Harry.

Hope you are looking forward to the day’s festivities. Should you have any further queries please don’t hesitate to contact Nick Clegg at cleggo123@googlemail.co.uk

G. Osborne (Chancellor of the Exchequer).

This week RON was beaten to the post of CUSU Student Union CO-Coordinator by someone else. It was proudly announced that there was a record turnout of four per cent. 628 votes.

On my daily 13 mile dawn run I took a new shortcut through some wasteland. Imagine my bewilderment when I stumbled upon the CUSU Military HQ! I decided to sneak in by cunningly disguising myself as a newly elected CUSU member. I was welcomed with open arms, shown the official CUSU handshake, then given my office hammock and mug, with the instructions that naptime is at 11am, 1pm and 4pm. ‘Sleeping Lions’ is usually played before lunch, and I was told to watch out for errant tumbleweed floating around the place. Someone informed me they still haven’t found the Women’s Officer, Roy Cropper, since last month’s ‘epic’ game of hide and seek either, so it’d be stellar if I could keep my eyes out for her too. In between a few initiatory rounds of Twister I attempted to ask Rahul Mangina, the CUSU Generalissimo, what CUSU actually did, but he just told me that it was a secret.  So I thought I’d stick around to try and find out.

Day 1- Bad day in the office today. RON is packing up his desk after losing his by-election. RON appears to be the most hard working character at HQ, willing to apply for any position going. Roy Cropper, Women’s Officer, who was recently found in Dante’s fourth ring of hell by the CUSU Head of Crosswords, Carlton Banks, was tearful about his election defeat: ‘RON lived for co-ordinating students. He had them in race, gender, sexual promiscuity, height … whatever you wanted. He made sure everyone in the office knew about White Jeans Wednesdays, Suit-Up Fridays, and Shake’N'Bake Saturdays, (the latter being the landmark achievement of Tom Chigbo-Selecta’s dictatorship). I sure will miss him.’ ‘Did you love him?’ I asked her. ‘With all my heart,’ she answered, with customary female emotion.

Day 2- Huge discussion in the office today. Black pens or blue pens. This place is going to the shit since RON lost. At least four people have turned up wearing exactly the same outfit. No co-ordination.

Day 3- Admiral Lashington, First Sea Lord of the CUSU Navy bounded through the office at about 11am, hollering and guffawing at us to ‘All Come See!’ We came see. He proudly announced that 24 weeks late and at only £600,000 over budget, The Commemorative Tom Chigbo-Selecta Quaver Statue Memorial was finished. He pulled back the curtains to show us the 17 foot homage to the Old Leader, made entirely out of crisps. Rahul Mangina commented that it was the most beautiful snack-based representation of any of the 100 most influential black people in Britain since the Mr. Motivator crumpet miracle. Roy Cropper, Women’s Officer, proceeded to faint with customary female spontaneity.

Day 4- CFUCKSU, the CUSU Foreign Office, sent out a memo declaring annexation of Grantchester.

Day 5 - It’s Friday in the office. Which means no one is here. Four day weekend really lets everyone take their foot off the gas after a tough week.

Day 9- Spent the last four days locked in the office by myself. Had to eat the Chigbo statue to survive.

Day 10- Meet John ‘Party’ Smith, MC of CUSU Ents, for the first time. He shows me how from a distance of 45 yards he can fire 5 darts at the CUSU ‘Enemies’ Board and hit ‘He Who Shall not be Named’ in the eyes, mouth, forehead, and Big Fish badge. Then, he lets me listen to his whole collection of ‘CLUBLAND LIVE’ mini-disks; ‘Party’ is convinced they will revolutionise clubbing in Cambridge. He’s thinking of unleashing them at the new LGBT night on Thursday afternoons at The Copper Kettle.

Day 11- Had a lovely game of Battleship with Admiral Lashington. Let him win so that he would show me his new watercolour of Chigbo fighting a bear. He says the bear represents student apathy. Or something like that. I wasn’t really listening.

Day 12- Office is happy. Mangina has bought Segways for everyone. This will cut down wasted hours travelling between the games room and the fun slide. Should give everyone in the office more time to work on the huge elastic band ball being built.

Day 13- Roy Cropper, Women’s Officer, with customary female lack of spatial awareness, fails to notice the elastic band ball rolling towards her and is crushed.

Day 14- This is ridiculous. I’ve been here for two weeks. I’ve got a Magdalene Angus fashion show to get to so I’m off. But before I leave Mangina starts pestering me for another game of Connect 4. Silly tit reckons he’ll have me this time, wants to go double or nothing. I’ve already got clocked up £4,000 and the CUSU Jet ski in winnings, but apparently he thinks this time will be different. I didn’t fancy it, so I let RON play instead. He proceeds to crush Mangina. Good old RON – he’s back in the game.

Shalom! Gabriel Latner here, talking to Declan Clancy about my contentious life-time ban from the Union after I allegedly abused a speaker at the debate last week, ‘This house believes Israel is a rogue state.’

That rogue, President James Counsell, has bloody banned me from the Union! So I’ve been reduced to standing outside of it having my picture taken by Varsity observing some absolutely hilarious skylarks. At least I hope they were skylarks and not Palestinian fighter jets. If they were, I’d have to get out trusty old Hammy (my hammer) and nail those mothers to the fucking wall. I’d go MOSSAD on their asses. For all you civvies, that means Men On Super Secret Army Days. MOSSAD can do basically anything. But it’s only for real men; like me. When I was on army tour I had to rearrange Major’s flowers every day and that takes fucking balls. I bet James Counsell’s never rearranged a bunch of petunias just 100 miles from the Palestinian border.

All this Union stuff started about 10 days ago. I was walking along through Market Square and fancied a snack, so thought I’d try out some of this falafel lark everyone keeps talking about down at shul. Cheeky bastard on the stall mentioned something about Hummus to me. How dare he bring up those terrorist scum! Needless to say, I went fucking spare and told him I was gonna nail him to the fucking stall. Chickpeas were scrummy, however.

Things got even worse when they had run out of chicken soup in hall. Needless to say, I had to nail the fucking soup pot to the wall.  I hadn’t been this angry since playing randoms on Fifa and I got Maccabi Haifa three times! Everyone knows it’s all about Halpeol Tel Aviv. Urrgh.

Got back to my room to find housekeeping going apeshit on my ass. Not at all happy with me; I’ve been doing a bit of superficial redecoration, installing plenty of lovely pictures and a few necessary shelves on the walls. Anyway, apparently you’re not supposed to be using six inch spiral shanks in a mid-18th century set. How am I supposed to know anything about the structural integrity of mid-18th century buildings? I know stuff about army, nails, and the upkeep of Major’s petunias. Who the fuck is Peter anyway? It’s not his house; it’s my house. If he wants to start, I will fucking nail him to the wall. Which housekeeping probably will complain about again. Bah! This is more circular than the Middle Eastern question.

So let me fill you in on what happened at the Union. Think it was my greatest mission ever. On recon on the walk back from lectures and I see this “Israel is a rogue state” rally going on. Using my super smart army skills I decided to stake it out. Sat in a bush down Portugal Place for about 53 hours straight. Got pissed on by a couple of Blues, and think someone may have had sex in or around me. But us MOSSAD types have to go through that all the time. Had plenty of tuna sandwiches to keep me going. Next thing I know, I’ve got a place on the speaker stand! Bit surprised to see a bird up there, but I suppose it’s the 21st century now.  Hummus’ don’t usually employ yats, but I suppose drastic times, drastic measures and all that.

Anyway, gave her a bit of a chat (which didn’t go down well) and then Counsell got his hands on me. I could have killed him with my secret army stare but I was a little bit tired after 3 days in a bush so decided to call it a night. But he has totally disregarded the Union Constitution. I mean it’s right there, nailed to the fucking wall. Well I took it down and was on my way to show it to the President Elect when Counsell cornered me. Mentioned something about Article 5.4 being anti-Israeli propaganda. The shitmunchers! Needless to say, I pulled out Hammy and nailed it to the fucking wall. Counsell for some reason looked pretty pleased, but I didn’t have time to hang around and wonder why. I’d just got a call from Major; they’re enrolling me in something called Hero Squad.

***For those of you without a sense of humour or the intelligence of trained chimp, Latner didn’t write this article. He’s not that funny. He did, however, ask for this line to be put in, verbatim.***

…casts an irreverent eye over some of the week’s most pressing issues…sometimes.

Ah, third year – home of the free lash. The graduate schemes roll in to town, with more prawn tempura and prosecco than you can shake a stick at.

One from just outside of the Magic Circle was the other night, as Levi’s opened its doors for ‘the student lock in’. 30% off, a DJ and a couple of cheeky rum and cokes. Well up for it, bombing through the Grand Arcade, images of the lads and I getting absolutely battered and vomiting on a pair of faded 501s. Like all shopping should be.

However, once we had the free drink (singular), it did turn into 5 lads on a shopping trip. Which is uncomfortable to say the least. It’s just not natural. You don’t want to try anything on the shop floor, as I always feel a bit of a dick doing that anyway, a feeling only heightened when there are 4 male friends accompanying you.

They weren’t even taking the mick. One even tried to give me a compliment and some advice about jeans, which only made things worse.

It’s idiotic I know, and any girls reading this will despair, but the boys’ group shopping trip is just not something I can comprehend. Meet at 10 for a skinny mocha gluten free decaf extra shot of oestrogen frappuccino. Shop till I drop. Lunch at Pret. Bitch about that girl from New Hall.

Yet it does happen. I was in H&M the other day next to these three proper ‘lads’. I’m not talking about some drinking society Cambridge ‘rent a lad’ but the real football, booze and birds lad. The lads who read both Zoo and Nuts, and take in all the fashion tips; (the reason you see so many stacked fuckers in the outfit of boylouse, Aladdin arse jeans which stop halfway up the calf, no socks and plimsolls made out of tissue paper) out on a shopping trip together. The people who got Hard Fi their record contract. They’ll be out there booking a boy’s fortnight to Malia at the age of 28.

And I knew at the same time that whilst they each tried on hats, and gave each other completely sincere and non-ironic comments about how it looked, they were more than likely going to be in Spoons that night, getting into a fight and kicking people’s faces in on CCTV. It doesn’t make any sense, but at the same time weirdly enough, it is completely consistent… Back each other up on the shop floor and the dance floor, all the time knowing that even if it is covered in blood, that new set of rosary beads is going to be looking dead smart.

Before people even start, this is not a town v gown thing,  because I would have said the very same thing 3 years ago, far before I could ever be accused of being a patronising Cambridge prick. And I never went to Malia. But then again, take a step back and look at ourselves. We all start to merge together, changing our behaviour depending on our social groups and what they dictate.

Is wearing drinking society ties, shirt and trousers and going to Cindies on a Tuesday night, Life on a Wednesday and Thursday night, and Fez on a Sunday night, or any Big Fish event proudly associated with The Tab, not just exactly the same as going shopping with the lads?!

…casts an irreverent eye over some of the week’s most pressing issues…sometimes.

Just got back from Oktoberfest in Munich. Every year the centre of Munich is turned into a huge beer festival, where 8.2 million people will dress up in lederhosen and get absolutely plastered. Literally, the whole town. You get on the U-Bahn sober at around 11pm and all around you are the drunken remnants of another great day at the ‘Weisen’. This isn’t just a bunch of lairy young men either; men and women of all ages are down there (I’ve got photographic evidence of a seventy-eight year-old lady and me standing on a table singing a lovely rendition of New York, New York).

Munich 2010 - everyone's up for it.

Would it ever be allowed in England? It would herald the next Sodom, with bits of vomit and missing teeth flying around everywhere. Yet I walked around Munich, half cut, with thousands of others, and saw few of the violent or detrimental effects which the press in England would like to portray as being the only repercussions of alcohol.

In Bavaria, beer is cherished as a part of the national culture (the mayor himself each year has the first drink), whereas in the UK if there is even one little sign of drunkenness, the media (and this is something which stretches across a wide breadth, not just the usual Daily Mail), jumps on it as something horrific.

Only the very finest spirits and wines are allowed to be presented in non-negative manner, as they, by their very nature, have little connotation with the great unwashed masses, who in a paradoxical manner are both lambasted by, yet also pandered to, by the mainstream press.

Even Parliament, which has one of the cheapest bars in the country, has wandered in on this great new alcohol scare by proposing minimum price per unit regulations. Why on earth can we not just be a bit more sensible about the whole affair? Alcohol is something which is enjoyed in itself by many people, rather than just its effects.

This is a very important distinction, and in clumsy attempts to control those who use it solely for a release, those who enjoy it are the victims of collateral damage. If people want to drink themselves into the gutter, making it more expensive will not stop them, it will only make them more efficient, and push everyone into either supermarkets or The Regal.

This current move against alcohol is something which is completely symbolic of the wider state of our nation. The ‘general public’, whoever that is, is pandered to by the most mainstream institutions of government and media as being children. Any form of independent thought and responsibility is just no longer acknowledged, and instead both political and non-political culture is consistently focusing towards the lowest common denominator; resulting in TV programmes where Gordon Brown weeps in an interview with the bile-producing, hypocritical, utterly detestable cunt Piers Morgan; who has also somehow managed to wipe everyone’s memories of what he did as editor of the Mirror. (Doctored any pictures recently, Piers?)

The recent Wayne Rooney affair is a prime example of this. What has essentially happened is that a young man (who is, admittedly, in the public eye) has been unfaithful to his wife. Yeah it’s bad mate, but my God, it’s not like it hasn’t happened before, and it definitely will happen again.

Reading the Mirror, Mail, Sun, Star, People, News of the World and even ‘highbrows’ such as The Times, it has been presented as Armageddon. In Italy, old Silvio has been going at it like a pig on heat for the last twenty years, but over there it’s kept firmly in the gossip-humour sections, not front page…

‘LOOK AT WHAT THAT SCOUSE FUCKING BASTARD HAS DONE NOW, I CAN’T BELIVE IT, SANDRA, STOP WATCHING JEREMY KYLE AND HAVE A FUCKING LOOK AT THIS, WAYNE ROONEY HAS SHAGGED ANOTHER WHORE – WELL THAT’S IT I’M NOT GOING TO WORK TODAY. I’M TOO UPSET FOR BRAVE COLEEN AND ORPHANED KAI.’

Can we not be treated like the grown-ups we are, and not the headless lemmings that it appears are taking over? Can the public not just be trusted for a short time to think for itself, and not have to look at the latest molehill renovated as Mount Everest every day? The media probably realises very few people care for more than 5 minutes, and therefore they are consistently producing new sensationalism and extremes. One copy of Heat is not going to last you more than a day, never mind a week. Mainstream public life in this country has descended into an episode of EastEnders, and it is rapidly losing any sense of irony, humour or even fun, which sadly has pervaded into the mindset of those with authority dictating how we should live our lives.

I think the line was crossed on Christmas Day. “Grandma, whose present is this?” “Mine”. My reaction, honed by months of training, is to instantly call for 10 press-ups. I mean, I know she’s 74, but she still works, and exercise does anyone good. Fortunately, I was still in my post-dinner food coma, so all that happened was that I spazzed out slightly on the couch and garbled out something incomprehensible. But alas, this is what my world has come to. If you’ve got no idea what I’m talking about (What have you been doing with your lives?) I’d half recommend not reading on. These three rules will begin to take over your life. However, they will also bring immense enjoyment and gut-wrenching embarrassment, mostly depending on how well you follow the rules. So read carefully.

Firstly, never say the word ‘m-ine’ (notice the Yahweh style break up there). If you pronounce this fatal word, you will have to do ten press-ups immediately, no matter where you are. I’ve seen it done on planes, in packed immigration queues; I even remember a Clare Formal I may have been kicked out of for it. Secondly, if you ever say you’re going to do something outlandish, such as, “I can drink eight shots in a row,” and someone says ‘Challenge’, you are bound (by British law I hear) to carry this out. But the final, and most dangerous, rule to this ongoing conversational circus is ‘Tell Her’.  Venturing an opinion about a member of the opposite sex, detrimental or complimentary, will be met with the emphatic response, “Tell Her”, upon which you will have to walk up to that person, tell them whatever you said, and wait three seconds. Then, usually, run for it. Or, if I’m back in Manchester, crawl up into a ball and play dead. The stiletto wounds should stop bleeding after a couple of weeks.

 This is no small game, confined to a concentrated set of friends, however. Some of the girls I know were surprised to see that ‘m.i.n.e.’ had made it into the 2010 Varsity Ski Trip’s ‘Do’s and Don’ts Brochure’. I wasn’t. It was just another reminder that I must always be on my toes. I’m like a really shit ninja. Conversation, a last bastion of safety in the world of laddishness that invariably becomes student life, has now fallen victim to its macho, alcohol-soaked culture of competition, punishment and humiliation. I just spend my time in a verbal game of cat and mouse where I attempt to avoid saying anything.

Some people say Cambridge breeds the next generation of politicians, and if I did have the horrific misfortune of finding myself treading the murky waters of that cesspool, my public speaking would be spot on; the only personal ‘claim’ I make is the safety word for ‘challenge’, I generally refrain from talking about myself, or claiming ownership of absolutely anything, and I devoutly abstain from making any form of controversial or provocative comment about anyone. In fact, since I was caught on a ‘Tell her,’ to tell a woman bringing her spaniel into the pub, “you have a dog”, I now abstain from making any comments about anyone.
 

Whilst ‘Challenge’ is definitely the most dangerous (I had a particularly unforgettable incident on a train in Germany this summer), ‘Tell her’ is definitely the meanest, especially with people who, for want of a better phrase, really don’t give a shit. On nights out with the most especially militant of my friends, I’ve seen a girl’s evening ruined in a second with one acidic ‘Tell her’. The problem is, even after we all admit that it was ‘out of order’, the game does not stop. People merely resolve, out of fear of the game, to ensure they cover themselves better in the future.

For when played religiously, one does not find oneself compelled to follow the three rules by the external forces of peer pressure, but something much more strong and dangerous: an internal sense of obligation to the game and your own pride. It’s ridiculous, but just like in a casino, as the stakes get higher, the excitement, rush and, invariably, the enjoyment of the game is heightened.

And in this environment the game and phrases become automatic, reactions unrestrained whatever the social situation. In conversations with normal people who have no idea of the games, I am still playing, forever on edge. Friends of mine (shit!*) will confirm that I play it when no one else does, even when the punishment has no chance of enforcement, and the rules of the game have not been explained to the rest of the present company. I’m scared that one day I’ll find myself with the Senior Tutor, and having doubly restrained myself  not only against playing any of the games, but also from using my everyday syntax, I’ll just be a mono-syllabic grunt who can merely offer ambiguous, non-committal nothings.

That or I go for broke and get the man to give me 10 press-ups, tell his secretary she’s got a lovely pair of melons, and masturbate in the middle of front court.

*I honestly just did 10 press ups.