‘So what have you got planned over the summer?’

This question fills me with dread.

Firstly, it’s a barely concealed pretext for the inquirer to talk at length about their paid internship at BarCap or, worse still, their trip around Asia mopping up the tears of orphans. If we believe in the Dickensian notion of true selflessness going hand in hand with humility, the latter is particularly sickening as it will be plastered all over their CV as indiscreetly as an escort’s number in a phone box.

Pictured: your CV. Not Pictured: Subtlety.

Secondly, my own plans for the summer usually extend to following this daily routine: get out of bed at 11, watch YouTube clips of toddlers falling over for seven hours and then destroy my overdraft in clubs desperately hoping no one asks what university I go to.

The only thing worse than this question is its younger brother: ‘What did you do over the summer?’ Whereas with the first question there’s always the potential for redemption, by the time the second question comes there is no escape. You hear yourself mumble, ‘I just spent the summer chilling out’, while you die inside. Looking at your interlocutor you see the pride in their own summer replaced with sheer pity at yours. They rattle off the platitude, ‘Yeah, the best summers are the ones where you do nothing’.

Yet again I failed to spare myself from the embarrassment of the first question. Through sheer luck, however, I managed to escape the horror of the second. When all hope of a productive summer seemed lost, I was asked at the last minute to produce a sketch show at the Edinburgh Fringe. The role had induced more people to pull out than during a Catholic couples retreat. Fortunately for me, producing a show requires virtually no specific skills, as I had no previous experience in theatre. Instead, I spent my time at university as a professional procrastinator, habitual journalist and occasional student.

The term ‘occasional student’ brings me to the main lesson I learnt from Edinburgh. Having spent two terms as Reviews Editor at The Tab, I got quite a kick out of seeing my quotes on posters. Sure, the attribution may have been ‘The Tab’ rather than ‘Robert Smith, learned gentleman and all-round amazing human being’, but my ego isn’t particularly discerning and I lapped it up all the same. Seeing that the fantastic Truly, Medley, Deeply had used a quote of mine on their poster, for example, left me giggling like one of their legions of female admirers.

Having your quotes used isn’t always this pleasant, however. Use always brings the risk of misuse, as I was to learn.

The Occasional Students was an utterly forgettable sketch show with a five night run at Christ’s earlier this year. I gave it an incredibly generous two and half star review, mainly out of pity at accomplished performers dealing with such a terrible script. In truth though, I laughed more during my granddad’s wake. That isn’t clichéd hyperbole either: I attended both during the same month so I can make a direct comparison. Given this, I was slightly shocked to see that the show was being revived for a month-long run at Edinburgh. I was even more shocked to see my quote on their posters.

The Occasional Students: avid fans of KISS and being selective with the truth.

If I was to choose a quote from my review it would be the bitchy but accurate ‘The Occasional Students was only occasionally funny’. Of course, this isn’t a ringing endorsement capable of publicising a show to a paying audience at an international festival. Instead emblazoned on their posters was: ‘Very good performers really hitting their stride- The Tab’.

Before you jump down my throat and ask why I even said that if I didn’t like the show, let me explain. The quote had of course been cropped, in this instance from my final sentence: ‘If you’re going to go, leave it to the end of the week, as the already very good performers really hitting their stride could paper over these deficiencies.’

Makes for a very different verdict doesn’t it? The full quote doesn’t state that the performers are hitting their stride, merely that there is the potential for this to happen and this might rescue a fairly dire show. This is the problem with writing reviews; no matter how heavily you qualify a statement these qualifications can be cut. It may be dishonest but it is not illegal. The very definition of a quote is an extract cut from a larger text after all.

This experience has led me to generate a simple rule for assessing poster quotes: the shorter the quote, the greater the suspicion. One word quotes simply hold no value for me now and yet the amount of film posters that simply contain words like ‘Brilliant’ and ‘Hilarious’ is incalculable. ‘Brilliant’ may have been cut from the statement ‘Even the brilliant popcorn couldn’t quell the deep suicidal urges I experienced during this traumatically bad thriller’. Equally, ‘Hilarious’ may have been extracted from the lament ‘Even my wife’s tragic miscarriage can be considered hilarious when compared to this offensively unfunny comedy’.

This is also the reason why star ratings should be unilaterally banned. For me, a three star rating is reserved for productions of a good standard that I enjoyed more than most other things of its type. For others, however, three stars comprise a baseline rating for anything in which someone wasn’t accidentally sodomised on stage. During my time at Edinburgh I heard people say either ‘They gave it three stars but it read like a four star review’ or ‘Why did they give it three stars if they hated it that much?’ just about every day. Indeed, current Tab Reviews Editor Toby Parker-Rees has been humorously toying with the idea of banning three star reviews to counteract this.

‘So what?’ you may well be thinking, ‘everyone knows that review quotes and star ratings can be deceptive.’ Well I think that quotes and star ratings are far more damaging than being merely misleading. By boiling everything down to a few words or, worse still, a discrete number of meaningless symbols, the potential for subtlety and nuance is lost.

Reviews serve a purpose. Reviewers should make clear their subjective evaluation of something to help inform or correct the reader’s prejudgement.  Reviewing should also be an art form, however. Reviews can be full of humour and pathos, often employing the deeply unquotable technique of irony to achieve this. The best reviews wrong foot you, following seemingly tangential paths that are unexpectedly given relevance. They also contain pluralities of meaning. Having a star rating at the top of a review means that this nuanced perspective is, all too often, ignored in favour of the easily digestible symbols précising the writing.

Take the work of one of the twentieth century’s most celebrated theatre critics, Kenneth Tynan. When other critics were despairing at the lack of any recognisable dramatic structure in Waiting for Godot, Tynan saw this as the play’s very virtue. The quote, ‘It has no plot, no climax, no dénouement; no beginning, no middle and no end’ is actually a commendation, but reads like criticism when taken out of this context. Even if a more fitting praiseworthy quote is taken from the review, such as ‘I declare myself, as the Spanish would say, godotista’, the whole nuance of what poor old Ken was saying is lost. If Tynan had wanted his opinion of the play to be summarised in such a way he would have written ten words instead of two pages. Thankfully, Tynan lived in an age before star ratings. Today his opinion would no doubt be summarised by the quote, ‘Marvellous’, beside five meaningless stars.

Kenneth Tynan: too fucking brilliant to cut short.

This issue runs much deeper than cultural criticism, however. Tynan, a man of wide-ranging importance, is now best remembered by a quote. In 1965 he famously stated, ‘I doubt if there are any rational people to whom the word ‘fuck’ would be particularly diabolical, revolting or totally forbidden’. It was the first instance of the word fuck being used on British television. Reducing Tynan to this one quote, or worse still simply the word ‘fuck’, captures one aspect of his personality but disregards all the others that made him such an interesting figure. I sometimes fear that in a hundred years’ time his headstone will simply read, ‘Here lies Kenneth Tynan, the man who said fuck on the telly’.

I have this fear because the need to condense everything into easily digestible chunks is, unfortunately, a trend I see growing more and more. The internet is a marvellous invention and only the most trenchant Luddite would try and deny this. I don’t think, as some do, that it’s making us stupid. In fact there’s a considerable amount of research to suggest that it’s improving our ability to juggle multiple information sources simultaneously.

It is, however, stymieing our ability to consider things at length. This opinion piece has now just passed the 1,500 word mark and according to recent research those of you still reading should be given medals for displaying superhuman levels of concentration.

Indeed, any internet comment section is usually littered with the refrain ‘Too long, didn’t read’. The phrase itself is now considered too long and has been reduced to ‘TLDR’. What if the first reviewers of Crime and Punishment had simply written TLDR? What if the Great Reform Bill had been met with a collective shout of TLDR by parliament at its first hearing? TLDR is a four letter word far more damaging than any Tynan could have dreamt up even in his wildest fantasies.

If you want a vision of the future, imagine a cat sleeping on an open book- forever.

TLDR is the mantra of the moron, to borrow a turn of phrase from Bill Hicks, and pandering to this philosophy can be seen in all areas of life. Take politics for example; all political messages must now be reducible to a slogan that wouldn’t be out of place in a Pepsi ad, or they are invalid.

I’m not trying to be intellectually elitist. As my own confessions of slackerdom in the opening paragraphs confirm, I like my YouTube videos of cats singing karaoke hits as much as the next man. Accessible information and quick summaries have a vital place in our increasingly hectic world. They should not hold the only place, however.

Neither am I ignorant of the fact that this is not an especially new concern. The rise of the printed word meant that some skills were largely lost, memorisation for example, but others were gained to further develop our intellectual abilities.

I only hope that the same method of adaptation will occur in the face of the internet. Although it may sound like a Kenneth Williams double-entendre from ‘Carry on Cambridge’, length should never be a barrier to enjoyment. Some of the most interesting ideas and experiences simply can’t be summarised in a few short words. I can’t really pick any pithy quotes that sum up the message of this article effectively. I’m sure, however, that people in the comment section will gleefully pick one particular quote: ‘TLDR’.

Ed. – Incredibly, this article was cut prior to publishing.

I try and watch television programmes in the way that God intended as much as possible. That is on an actual television, and not through an illegal South East Asian streaming service. The problem with watching TV in this law abiding manner though is that it leaves you at the mercy of the schedules. As much as you may want CBeebies to show Cannibal Holocaust on a Monday morning, it’s never likely to happen.

For the most part I live happily within the constraints of the schedule. After all, flicking from channel to channel to find something worth watching provides a certain sense of purpose to lazy underachievers like myself. While channel hopping the other day, however, I discovered to my horror that two entirely different episodes of US shitcom Two and a Half Men were playing simultaneously on two entirely different networks. I started flicking between the channels rapidly, disgusted yet transfixed by the only thing worse than Charlie Sheen: two Charlie Sheens.

After five minutes of subjecting myself to this improvised Ludovico technique I needed rescuing. I needed proof that America could produce intelligent yet accessible situation comedy. Unfortunately, Seinfeld is not currently being syndicated on any UK television channel. With a flick of MegaVideo, however, I was able to create my own dream television schedule and fill my day with all the Jerry, George, Elaine and Kramer a man could wish for. If only now there was a website that would erase away the flickering images of the doppel-Sheen burnt into my psyche.

The internet is also an excellent way of circumventing the maddening wait for American TV to be broadcast on this side of the Atlantic. Whereas Sky are usually willing to stump up the extra and minimise this delay, the Beeb have a rather more laid back approach. The fourth season of Mad Men started in America on Saturday but it will be another six months until it is shown over here. As you probably know six months is the average gestation period of a baboon; far too long to wait for the TV equivalent of crack cocaine. It was time to venture once more onto the internet.

For those who haven’t seen the first three series of Mad Men, stop reading and start watching now. You’ll thank me later trust me. If you’re one of those lucky, lucky people who have, however, read on. Series four picks up eleven months after the end of series three. Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce is a scrappy young upstart pretending to clients they have two floors instead of one. More importantly Don is divorced and living the bachelor lifestyle. For Don Draper the bachelor lifestyle translates to encouraging hookers to slap him mid-coitus.

The Draper heavy first episode was unsurprisingly fantastic. Titled ‘Public Relations’ the episode chronicles Don’s realisation that he must market himself as well as the product, combined with a sub-plot in which Peggy and Pete experiment with an Edward Bernaysian PR stunt. The episode begins with the question ‘Who is Don Draper?’ and is bookended by two magazine interviews with the man himself giving two very different answers. Amidst all this there were classic Mad Men flourishes. Sterling’s one liners were as excellent as ever (on the one-legged magazine reporter: ‘They’re so cheap they can’t even afford a whole reporter.’) and he was equally, though unintentionally, funny in his suggestion that Don try the cutting edge dish Chicken Kiev . The only thing I was sad to see was that Harry Crane had abandoned his trademark bow-tie, a clear sign that the times-they-are-a-changin’.

So what of the scheduled nonsense this week? The biggest disappointment of the week for me was John Bishop’s Britain. Bishop is unreservedly old-school in his comedy stylings and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. He’ll never be a trendy comedian, but there are enough of those around already.

Bishop is fantastic at telling anecdotes about the crushing monotony of married life and the series opener, focusing on love and marriage, should have been perfect for him. Indeed when Bishop was in full flow things were good. Unfortunately, however, the show was peppered with mawkish interviews with celebrities you’ve always hated and members of the public you instantly hate. These clips were so bare of anything resembling humour it would have been easier for Bishop to make humorous observations about file footage of decaying mushrooms. I certainly won’t be tuning in again. Unless, of course, I’ve reached the 72 minute usage limit on MegaVideo and Two and a Half Men is on every other channel.

Friday Night with Jonathan Ross saw its final episode last week. Ross was never going to last long at the BBC following the puritanical response to Sachsgate and the onset of a recession that placed his sky-high salary under scrutiny. Indeed there will be many who will be celebrating his departure, no doubt in the Daily Mail comments section, with the kind of fervour usually reserved for the execution of longstanding dictators. Ross could certainly be very irritating at times, his reliance on sexual innuendo got very tiresome, and his interviews often devolved into the kind of fawning sycophancy that made everyone feel a little bit queasy.

At its best though, his show was truly fantastic and with the right guest Ross’s humour and anarchic style would shine. Perhaps my fondest memory of Ross was the first ever interview I watched with Jim Carrey in 2003, a pitch-perfect lesson in lunacy ending in Ross and Carrey singing ‘Wild Thing’ while the latter trashed the studio.

The final episode was a pretty decent send-off; an undeniably solid show even if there were no truly amazing moments. Mickey Rourke was gruff yet charming, Jackie Chan did his usual routine of listing all of his horrific injuries and David Beckham recounting his attempt to build a Taj Mahal out of Lego was an unexpected treat. Thankfully, Ross’s final goodbye avoided the self-indulgence he was often guilty of and his emotion was obviously genuine. Ross is of course moving to ITV, which I can see as being nothing but a disaster. Put it this way, can you ever imagine Ross asking David Cameron if he’d had a wank about Margaret Thatcher being broadcast on ITV?

Elsewhere on the Beeb That Mitchell and Webb Look returned for its Fourth Series. Recurring favourites such as Get Me Hennimore and the post apocalyptic game show returned accompanied by a truly fantastic sketch about research at Laboratoire Garnier. As is often the case with this sketch show, however, there were vast chunks of unfunny material. I’m all for sketches running on for a long time, Big Train being the masters of this, but frankly this only works if the opening conceit is suitably entertaining. For my money, the now largely forgotten ‘The Mitchell and Webb Situation’ is still their best sketch show offering to date.

Luckily the BBC actually have a fantastic sketch show currently showing every week, but the chances are that you haven’t heard of it. Horrible Histories is, as you might have guessed, aimed at children but do not let that put you off. It has some seriously good talent in, including Jim Howick who is better known for playing Gerard in Peep Show, and some truly original ideas. My favourites from the first couple of series? An advert for witch hunting in the style of Claims Direct, the four King Georges recast as a boyband , and a brilliant Roman Come Dine with Me complete with Dave Lamb’s narration.

My TV highlight of the week, however, was the brand new show Ugly Americans on Fiver. The show is a new American adult cartoon following the trials and tribulations of a social worker in New York. The twist is that this version of New York is populated by all manner of freaks and monsters and he is seemingly the only normal human being around. The tone of the programme is reminiscent of Daria, as is the heavily outlined animation, and any comic book, sci-fi or horror geeks will probably wet themselves with glee at the visual style. The characters are all wonderfully played, my particular favourite being the delightfully apathetic wizard co-worker Leonard, and you can check out the first episode here on You Tube.

As much as we may want television to be escapist, real life has a horrible tendency to invade the idiot box. When this happens the results are predictably idiotic. No prizes if you’ve already guessed that I’m talking about the rolling news coverage of Raoul Moat’s eventual suicide.

While getting ready for a night out I tuned into the coverage with a few friends. After briefly toying with the idea of creating a twisted drinking game around the BBC’s commentary we decided that our reputations as decent human beings were probably damaged enough already and turned off the telly to play a good old fashioned game of Twenty One instead.

My problem with the rolling news coverage of the tragic conclusion of the Raoul Moat case is precisely that it could be turned into a drinking game. Cameramen get in the way of police vehicles trying to get to the scene? Take a drink. The voiceover gives you open ended details proving they have no idea what is going on? Take a drink. The roving reporter mercilessly badgers a local person who might have some scant information? Take a drink.

At best there was no point to the rolling news coverage and at worst it exacerbated what was already a very delicate situation. I don’t see how clueless commentary running over murky shots of policeman in hedges was in the public interest. Take away the camera and microphone and Jon Sopel’s insistence on getting information out of traumatised people would turn him into a meddling and insensitive lunatic. I’d carry on, but anything I could say about rolling news has already been said in a much more skillful way by Mr. Charlie Brooker.

Elsewhere, the BBC proved that light entertainment could be just as depressing as live coverage of a suicide with 101 Ways to Leave a Gameshow. The old truism ‘talent borrows, genius steals’ can often be seen in the work of a television commissioner. Total Wipeout is an unashamed rip-off of the sublime cult classic Takeshi’s Castle, but this doesn’t stop it being the Citizen Kane of people falling into water. The problem with commissioning telly almost always arises, however, when the decision is made to combine two formats.

101 Ways to Leave a Gameshow is a spectacular example of these Frankenstein creations, as it tries to combine regular gameshow questions with the dramatic splashes of Total Wipeout. Inevitably, it does neither very well. The questions aren’t stimulating or interesting and, even worse, the unavoidable tumbles into the swimming pools happen far too infrequently and are anticlimactic as a result. Steve Jones and Nemone are thrown into the mix to satisfy the ‘yoof’ demographic that every telly boss now fawns over obsessively and the final insult is that the whole thing takes place in a ridiculously extravagant multi-storey tower that has been specially built for the programme. For the same money they could have booked everyone involved in the production of this show into Dignitas and paid Steve Jones enough money to disappear from our screens for the rest of his hollow life. Quite how all this mediocrity is stretched over a full hour is still baffling to me.

So was there anything worth watching this week? Well thankfully the BBC managed to justify its existence with an excellent new series of Mary Queen of Shops. Unlike many TV ‘experts’ Mary Portas actually knows what she is talking about and eschews the usual personality gimmicks. This series has seen her turning her considerable talent to independent retailers of many different persuasions. This week it was the turn of John Peers, a formerly award winning hair stylist whose business was in desperate need of recovery. John was the definition of lovely warm-hearted Northerner and seeing Mary turn his business, and his self-esteem, around was a pleasure to watch. Anyone considering setting up their own retail business should be made to watch Mary in action. At the very least they should be asked to construct an elaborate drinking game around her show.

The summer’s here and it’s time to take a well earned break. Sure, you probably have at least one assignment due in the first week back but don’t let that get in the way of a good summer. After all what harm can leaving it until the night before it’s due in do?

With freedom from the dreaded weekly essays or problem sheets comes the freedom to watch as much television as possible. Sure you can watch iPlayer or 4oD during term time but it just aint the same. With everything at the click of a mouse there’s no aimless channel hopping, no discovering daytime TV gems and none of the fervent discussion of adverts which only the true armchair critic is capable of.

I’ve spent this week, therefore, easing myself gently back into the television’s waters. My new daytime TV crush is ITV’s overly dramatic new gameshow The Chase. The Chase takes Eggheads whole ‘beat the experts’ gimmick and throws in Bradley Walsh so the ITV audience feel like they’re in safe hands. The experts, or ‘Chasers’, are all wonderfully arrogant but Mark Labbett, also known as ‘the beast’, steals the show. He is an unstoppable force of nature, and listening to his self-satisfied quips as he devours the lowly mortals placed in front of him is fantastic.

After seeing Simon Brodkin at the Wolfson Howler earlier this year I watched his new BBC Three series Lee Nelson’s Well Good Show with some trepidation. Seeing Simon live was fantastic as his audience participation as the well-meaning chav Lee Nelson is incredibly creative and slick. I’m happy to say this interaction with the audience provides the focus of his new show. Unfortunately some truly dreadful sketches are thrown in the midst of all this but it’s still worth watching if you’re stuck for something to do on a Thursday night for Brodkin’s ad-libbed banter alone.

My TV highlight of the week is taken from an unlikely source. Although I inevitably end up watching it every year, the Glastonbury coverage usually makes me want to take a cold shower to wash all the middle-class smugness away. Hearing about the all the money raised for charity by the Somalian smoothies stall or watching the band we all have to pretend we’ve heard of because Lauren Laverne says they are ‘fantastic’ is enough to make a little bit of vomit rise in the back of my throat.
Seeing former Kinks front man Ray Davies perform last Sunday, however, was a surprising treat. Kinks bassist Peter Quaife passed away only a few days beforehand and as Ray performed Days, a song celebrating the time spent with someone now lost, you could see him fighting back the tears. This is the only time the Glastonbury coverage has gone beyond sanitised arse-licking of overpaid musicians and actually moved me in anyway. See it for yourself here on YouTube.

Anyone who says Catz May Ball was their first choice is a dirty liar. As Third Years who should have known better and booked tickets earlier, a few of us scrabbled around for somewhere to go long after the tickets ran dry for other balls. Only Catz remained suspiciously not sold out. We booked quickly and then theorized.

Perhaps the theme was truly awful, we thought, but instead of ‘Sutcliffe’s Bradford’ or ‘Coprophilia’ the theme was the unexciting but undeniably solid ‘Make Believe’. Maybe there was some association we were simply unaware of, such as BNP sponsorship, and attending would have our name on a blacklist for years to come. In the end we discovered that there was no real reason that Catz took so long to sell out, as it was a bloody good ball that played to its strengths and minimised its limitations.

Although the queue stretched further than an oil spill the Catz team, unlike the wastes of flesh at BP,  dealt with it well, getting everyone through quickly and with limited fuss. Rather than the usual annoying magician who tries to cop a feel of your girlfriend while he finds the red ball he just ‘disappeared’, the queue entertainment was provided by some drummers beating out a suitably ominous rhythm. This got everyone quite excited as human beings are essentially hairless apes in suits, and we relate pounding drums to excitement.

The tired theme ‘Make Believe’ was pulled off well. Women in Venetian masks sat pretending to be part of the table in simultaneously the most awesome and most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen at a May Ball.  Inevitably there was the big white marquees and ugly tables, but disguised by tasteful lighting and unusual style choices such as an indoor fountain.

None of us give a damn about the theme. Everyone I know who went to John’s this year was left baffled as to what the theme actually was but talked about their night as if they had witnessed a rap battle between Jesus and Mohammed.

For me, the most important thing about a May Ball is the stuff you push down your neck, and Catz got it absolutely right. Champagne flowed all evening and you could get everything from Mojitos to Milton Ales with almost no hassle.  Everything was generally made in large batches, rather than to order, which minimised the queues no end. For those who were distraught at having missed out on some May Week Cindies there were all the colours of the VK rainbow on offer. Life for the teetotal amongst us was also pretty damn good, the pinnacle being the Oreo flavoured milkshakes provided by Shake Away.

The food was even better. Fajitas and crepes provided quick and tasty relief, the burgers didn’t taste like raw sewage for a change and cups of Convent Garden soup could be knocked back like Vodka shots, though I wouldn’t recommend eyeballing them. I never queued for more than a couple of minutes for anything and amazingly most of the food and drink was still available at 6am. In short, for those of us who try to earn back their ticket price by consuming as much as possible Catz was heaven.

By contrast the entertainment only did the job.  There was no exciting comedy or new music on offer, although I did enjoy the overly camp, cowboy boots clad, North American singer-songwriter who, as my best friend put it, ‘sang about bumming for an hour’. What Catz did do, however, was push the nostalgia centre in your brain into overdrive. My girlfriend and gayfriend loved Blueprint’s boy band antics but they were massively overshadowed by the truly awesome Truly Medley Deeply. The TMD boys essentially did semi-acoustic covers of pop songs, blending in many different snippets into one long medley. On paper it sounds diabolic, but with their perfectly timed 4am set they had everyone going a little bit mental and ranged from MGMT to Leonard Cohen to Daft Punk without missing a beat.

Of course the jewel in the St Catz childhood nostalgia crown was S Club 3, and although they only played half an hour they didn’t disappoint. Starting with S Club Party was slightly unfortunate as the song lists all seven bandmates in sequence, which left the three on stage looking like pop music’s version of the surviving soldiers on Remembrance Day paying tribute to their fallen comrades. Jo, the racist one who can actually sing, belted out the verses and Bradley did the little pseudo-rap sections with great aplomb. Paul, however, looked like a sweaty uncle at a wedding, and fumbled around in a bargain bin England shirt forgetting even the most famous of lines. No one cared though, and Paul appeared to be so glad to not be stuck in a bedsit having a different flavoured Pot Noodle for each meal, that he won the crowd over with his cheeky grin (even if it did reveal his multiple chins). I sincerely hope he cashed in this performance with some adoring fresher later on in the evening.

So what was dreadful? Not much really. The lack of attractions was a little bit annoying, with one bouncy castle seeming paltry compared to the Bumper Cars and Swing Boats you get at other May Balls. Serving many of the drinks in actual glasses was nice, but was also completely idiotic given that the dancefloor was more glass than floor by 6am. No ball’s perfect, however, and Catz got just about everything right that really mattered.

Sod your NME flavour of the week indie outfit, your Laser Quest and your oysters. I’d spend an evening quaffing quick booze to wash down a Nutella crepe as Paul from S Club sings ‘Follow your heart’s desire’ instead of ‘Climb every mountain higher’ for the hundredth time any day.

Food and Drink:

Wow Factor:

Value for Money:

Star Attraction: Enough quality food and drink to feed a smallish American state.

Biggest Turn Off: The mentally ill vagrant taking the Survivors photo.

It’s the week in which a progressive alliance between Eton College and Westminster School has begun running the country. Your soul has probably been so crushed by exam term you don’t even care, however. You’re only reading The Tab as part of your ritual cycle of exam denial, along with Hermes and Facebook. You’re bloody addicted to the stuff apparently.

There’s reason to be cheerful though. Our lovely Editor Phoebe Luckhurst has finally got round to doing a Tab Rates vs. Tab Slates this term. Also Varsity have made the rather embarrassing error of referring to The Tab in a public notice warning its writers not to refer to The Tab (but more on that later). Finally, there’s another batch of Culture Vulture goodness being delivered fresh to your screen. Bask in its warm glow children.

Art: So you’re the arsty type eh? You’d probably enjoy James Surry’s new attack on boredom, Trolls and Ponies. Its election coverage is genius and its sex columnist is genuinely foul and, hopefully, a liar.

Food and Drink: Let’s face it, your healthy eating regime has collapsed under exam stress. Most likely you are eating a McDonalds every evening and then smearing the remaining grease over yourself whilst quietly sobbing and singing ‘Like a Virgin’ to yourself. Sainsbury’s is shut until Thursday as well, so what chance have you got?

Music: The Fiver at the Junction on Friday is always a good bet if you’re looking to snag yourself a starving, image conscious indie boy or girl. Alternatively, there’s a dodgy Queen tribute band playing the Corn Exchange the same night if your plans bite the dust (geddit?).

Film: I recommended Four Lions last week, true, but the Picturehouse are having a satellite Q & A session with the director (and all round comedy hero) Chris Morris after their screening on Saturday. If that doesn't take your fancy, Easy Rider is being shown there on Wednesday, so go along and prove how goddamn counterculture you are you snivelling privately-educated cretin.

Television: Have I Got News For You has been on top form this series, with Chris Addison’s rant about journalists failing to understand the nature of coalition government one of many moments of genius last week. Or you could watch the cheerfully packaged harbinger of the apocalypse Britain’s Got Talent I guess.

Style: Yves Saint Lauren once said ‘Fashion fades, Style is eternal.’ As a historian I have to say he was dead right. Check out this photo of Herman Goering at the Nuremberg trial with his completely on trend sunglasses and headphones combo.

Union: If you missed Oliver Stone last night don’t worry because there’s plenty on this week. Oh no wait, there really isn’t. Seems like you’ll be spending another week procrasturbating.

YouTube Video of the Week: After Varsity’s cock-up being displayed as our featured image, I couldn’t think of any other way of paying tribute other than creating a Downfall parody (although as YouTube have become more facist than the Nazis depicted in the video about copyright, we're relying on the lovely guys at Vimeo for the second time this term). Also Jack, I’m only kidding.
 

When a good friend of mine was challenged about why he didn’t vote this week he replied: I’m the only one who made the right choice, I voted for nobody and nobody won. They were right. No matter what that CUCA friend of yours whisper into your ear, after consuming their Bollinger and swan’s blood apéritifs of course, David Cameron did not win the election which, considering how much money Murdoch and Ashcroft threw after him, is fucking hilarious. For anyone short on exam term drama it means you only have to switch on News 24 to get more conniving, plotting and uncertainty than your average Sopranos box set. 

Unfortunately, however, this column is called Culture Vulture not Political Animal so I’m going to have to talk about culture. This is redundant as you’ll be balls deep in revision by now and politics is invading all areas of cultural life anyway. I mean The Weakest Link was cut off by Gordy’s resignation, something that the BBC apparently wouldn’t do even in the case of Prince Harry dying. For those of you who are still reading and didn’t take my entreaty to piss off too seriously, first of all well done you’ve learnt not to take everything you read too seriously. Second of all, it doesn’t take much effort to do anything on my list: even going to the Union requires barely rolling out of bed for most of you. If you’re really struck by exam term lethargy, however, simply look at YouTube Video of the Week: you spend the 10% of non-Facebook related internet usage on YouTube anyway.

Art: A retrospective of Caribbean born artist John Lyon’s work at Williams Art starts tomorrow and, from the brief look I’ve had at his work, it appears to be abstract enough to discuss without being wrong but not so abstract that there’s no possible way of being right either. Perfect for a date with an arts student with a high opinion of themselves then.

Food and Drink: La Tasca have their ‘Tapas for a Tenner’ deal running from Wednesday-Sunday which proudly proclaims ‘eat as much as you like’. I’m sure like me you take this as a personal challenge, so why not all head down and we’ll have our own Cantab edition of Man v Food.

Music: Ray Davies. The man who fronted The Kinks. The man who wrote You Really Got Me, A Well Respected Man, and Waterloo Sunset. He’s playing the Corn Exchange on Thursday. Oh no wait…he’s charging £35 for tickets. You can buy eleven Gardies Bacon Burgers for that money, that’s ten to eat and another to throw in Davies’s money grabbing sell out face.

Film: Having missed it off the list last week I’ve really got to recommend Four Lions. It’s not perfect but it’s a damn sight better than most British comedies and, even better, the Guardian have failed to see the funny side. Before Four Lions started, I was also lucky enough to see this sublimely bizarre trailer for the Greek film Dog Tooth and, although I’ve no idea what the film is about, I can’t wait to watch it.

Television: I’ve already suggested watching News 24 (Gordon Brown beheaded himself live on air yesterday for Christ’s sake) but if that prospect is simply too boring there’s plenty to get at. You Have Been Watching is rumbling along and, although not half as good as Brooker’s BBC Four offerings, is still a welcome distraction from exam term suicide.

Style: Fans of vintage jewellery should drop Eclectica an e-mail as they have some fantastic, and affordable, ideas for May Ball accessories. This goes for men too: their cufflinks are fucking amazing.

Union: Lord Seb Coe is speaking on Thursday although, of course, Armando Ianucci fans will of course know the truth about his bid for the 2012 Olympics.

YouTube Video of the Week: Seeing the village idiot of broadcast journalism make an absolute prick of himself on live TV is always fantastic, so watch this video of a sweaty Adam Boulton imploding into a puff of insignificance on Sky News. For those of simpler tastes, however, Powerthirst have finally made a follow up to their original logic defying energy drink adverts.

It can’t be the third Culture Vulture of term, I mean it just can’t. I would have done far more revision by now if that was the case. No surely there must be some mistake. Well my friend unfortunately there’s not, and as Culture Vulture is a couple of days later than usual, it’s worse than you originally thought.

Fear not though my disheartened and disorganised reader, for once again I am valiantly forsaking my degree so you have something to actually do in your free time that doesn’t involve the words ‘lash’, ‘banter’ or ‘it wasn’t exactly rape’. Alternatively, if you can't be arsed to do something different at least there's 500 words of pure procrastination to distract you from work.

Art: Banksy and Friends is running at Cambridge Contemporary Art on Trinity Street from Friday, so head down to see work by the legendary corporate cash-cow, *ahem* I mean subversive underground artiste, as well as work by his primary influence Blek le Rat.

Food and Drink: It’s exam term and, let’s face it, you can’t be arsed to cook. If you’re going to live off takeaways though put down that Domino’s Menu immediately. Instead give Meghna a ring on 01223 727410. They’ll set you up with the nicest takeaway curry in Cambridge for a fraction of the price.

Music: Trendy Oxford indie outfit Foals are playing the Junction on Thursday, but it’s sold out so erase this sentence from your brain immediately. If you’re looking for a real musical treat this week then listen to this lost Rolling Stones track from 1972 unveiled last month.

Film: Powell and Pressburger classic The Red Shoes is being shown by John’s Film Society on Thursday. Many would argue it’s their best film (I prefer A Matter of Life and Death myself) and it’s like totally metafictional you poncey postmodern pricks.

Television: It’s the election soon apparently, so what better TV to get you in the mood than The Thick of It? You can get the whole lot on DVD or you can watch Series Three on YouTube if you’re feeling a bit cheaper. If you don’t like swearing it’s probably a good idea to fuck the fuck off.

Style: Fit College has returned this week so decide which couple is the most stylish and vote for them. Or, more conventionally, pick the one you’d rather fuck.

Union: Pole dancing…I mean “Pole Fitness” is still running at the Union although, much to Andrew Chapman’s chagrin, someone in Robinson keeps tearing off the section of the Union posters advertising it. If you don’t fancy empowering yourself (or don’t possess the necessary genitalia to attend) the Comedy Election Debate on Thursday is bound to be cracking.

YouTube Video of the Week: In a twist this week I’ve picked the best video to have been banned from YouTube. I am of course talking about the sublime video to MIAs new single ‘Born Free’. The Guardian have complained that it’s not subtle enough, which rather takes the fun out of all the ginger persecuting glory.
 

A decidedly worse for wear Culture Vulture comes to you in the wake of my 21st birthday celebrations. Without getting into too much detail, 88% vodka, Leffe and Dirty Martinis are not the healthiest combination. My favourite former Tab columnist James Surry, however, made the evening with his birthday card depicting me in blackface with ‘Rob Smith Minstrel for Hire’ emblazoned across the front. His gift of vintage 1960s dirty magazines was pretty amazing as well. The copy of Mayfair has a guide to choosing your mistress. It reads like a Tab how to guide with all the layers of student irony taken away.

If your cultural tastes are rather more sophisticated than 60s porn and blackface, although if you watch Mad Men they’re probably not, then you should probably have a quick scan below. It has everything of cultural worth that I could be bothered to either think up or browse the internet for five minutes in order to find. Seriously guys, no one has ever e-mailed in suggestions. If you have something you want more than three people to attend tell me about it. It will save me time and, as every patronising successful businessman has told us, time is money.

Art: The Fitz has a collection of Maggi Hambling’s wave paintings starting tomorrow. I don’t understand the hard on artists seem to have over waves, but I guess why be subtle when you have a clumsy metaphor for the elemental power of nature ready and waiting.

Food and Drink: After my amazing 21st celebrations I have to mention Niche on Regent Street. It does 2 for 1 cocktails every night until 11. Unlike the Vaults, who only have this offer on four shitty reject cocktails, you can get everything on their list, from Classic Martinis to Cava Mojitos, and choose which brand of spirits they use. They also have an 88% vodka at a wallet hurting £7 a shot. Given that they open til 4am, you have no reason not to go.

Music: Are you going in for the kill? Are you doing it for a thrill? Well then get your ass down to the Corn Exchange on Thursday then.

Film: Todd Solondz has finally made a sequel to Happiness (one of the few films that has made me feel genuinely uncomfortable while watching it) with different actors playing all of the same roles. Although this is an interesting choice, it means we won’t see Richard Harris's son (and Lane Pryce in Mad Men) doing a Russian accent again. Anyway, I digress, it’s called Life During Wartime and is on at the Picturehouse all this week.

Television: I rescind last week’s comment about being bored of iPlayer. With the new series of Outnumbered and the fantastic highbrow yet entertaining It’s Only a Theory (starring Reginald D. Hunter and the writer of Outnumbered Andy Hamilton) to get through you never have to leave your room.

Style: Why did I start a style section? I’m a male history undergraduate and I don’t even get to read the Sunday Times style magazine during term time. Being a fan of leather satchels, however, I have to say my interest is piqued by Cambridge Leather Bags on Sussex Street. I haven’t had a look yet and given my lack of funds it might not be a safe decision.

Union: The Union has some pretty heavy hitters this week, with Sir John Major and Ulrika Johnson catering to most people’s tastes. If you’re really into politics though, head over to the University Arms for the Independent's Election Debate on Tuesday. Johann Hari, of Richard Littlejohn slaying fame, will be there.

YouTube Video of the Week: It’s a few months old now but Ricardo Autobahn’s ‘The Golden Age of Video’ is as if someone has recorded one of my wet dreams and put it on the internet.