Procrastination. Such a delightfully elongated word, that even to say it is to do it. Having gazed balefully at the page of a book for a good ten minutes, there comes an inescapable point in the day when we simply must divert our attentions elsewhere. And lo, procrastination was born, and it was good.

This week, I once again confronted a terrifyingly blank word document to do battle with an essay. Tea and cereal within reach, (was there any milk? Of course not. Fool of a Took.) my intentions at this stage were strictly honourable. But to no avail. Sneaky procrastination assaulted me in various familiar forms…

PROCRASTONAP. Madame Procrastonap is the most cunning of enemies to the disgruntled early riser. By 10:30, no amount of nutella-smothered Raisin Wheats could restore my flagging energy levels. Longingly eying my recently vacated bed, I toyed with the idea of a short snooze. I shall wake up bursting with energy and ideas, and… wait … I’m still in my pyjamas? Score.

PROCRASTOSNACK. Sir Procrastosnack can strike without warning at any time of any day. You are sadly mistaken if you think hunger is an obligatory component. It is not.

PROCRASTOPURCHASE. One link to Asos or Topshop left carelessly within reach on the Facebook wall of your second cousin’s friend’s sister initiates a three hour trawl of the online high-street. An impulsive Procrastograb usually ensues. In an attempt to make my browsing seem more profitable and less nonsensical, I once bought an offensively clingy gold unitard to wear for the next bop. Mistake.

PROCRASTEMPLATION. The most ubiquitous of the family, this can last anything from thirty seconds to three days and can occur with or without the influence of social networking. A quick skim through the old newsfeed inevitably leads to lengthier Facebook excursions, where ex-love interests are stalked, appraised and potentially re-contacted.

So beware, my dear readers, of procrastination. Essays may come and go but she will always linger, in your bed, computer, fridge, ready to pounce the moment you start thinking productive thoughts.

Why spend multiple hours working when you could sleep, eat cake or buy stupidly expensive unflattering clothes? These were my thoughts as I finally hauled myself back to 1200 words of pain last night, and once again my bed started to look mighty comfy…

Each week The Tab publishes a personal experience of culture in Cambridge. Our second installment is by Ami Jones, The Tab‘s Theatre Editor. If you’ve got an idea for the column, email a pitch to culture@cambridgetab.co.uk.

I used to be white.

Sort of. I was born to a white British father and a Japanese mother, and grew up in Hong Kong. For the formative years of my life, I was regarded as a white girl. A gringo. A postcolonial expat. Or at least as white as I now appear Asian to the British – which, from what I’m told, is quite a bit. And that’s actually rather fun. After the initial slightly boggling paradigm shift I had to undergo, I’ve grown to enjoy experiencing what is closest to actually being able to switch races every time I board a flight home/back to Cambridge.

Except I’m an actress. Or try to be one. And nowadays, every time I check the list of ongoing auditions, I consider three things when assessing my chances: 1) Size and reputability of the production, 2) Whether I’d suit any of the roles, and 3) How likely it is I’d be cast above a white girl of the same ability.

I don’t really know how I should feel about this. Should I be angry? I’ve always despised minorities who blame all their problems on imaginary racism. And at the end of the day, well… it’s not anyone’s fault. Not really. I’ll admit: were I to direct an elaborately designed, uber-naturalistic, decadent Renaissance period drama and I had two actors of equal ability, one white and one ethnic, I’d go for the former. The only twinge of conscience I’d feel would be down to the fact that I’ve been in that situation, not really any objective sense of morality. And which should win? Artistic integrity or nitty-gritty morals? I honestly couldn’t tell you.

To date, I’ve been lucky. There are enough surreal(ish) plays/fairies and suchlike in Shakespeare and enough modern plays in Cambridge to accomodate me. But then again there are still enough productions where I get the sneaking feeling as I prepare my monologue that, well – it would probably just be a bit more, ah, appropriate to cast a white actor.

Obviously it would be ludicrous to go around accusing directors of prejudice. I have no way of knowing how much, if at all, my ethnicity has barred me from roles. And actors (especially female) are used to winning or losing roles partly on the basis of looks. You can be too fat, too thin, too youthful, too grizzled, too short, too tall, too blonde, too student-y, too anything. And on that basis, why not include too… er… racial?

It’s a general symptom of an entire industry, and you can’t fight an entire industry. In fact, it’s a symptom of an industry which stems from a symptom of an entire society, but hey – let’s not go there.

At the same time, it can be frustrating. I love the theatre. I love being on stage. And it’s tough enough as it is. There are half as many roles available to women than men in all media – theatre, television, film – and drama schools openly enroll more male students on this basis. There is pressure to stay slim, be pretty and remain youthful. Add the elements of the luck required and, of course, talent, and I begin to ask myself, why bother? Another crippling stumbling block is in my way.

And on top of it all, I am just as white as I am Asian. It is strange to know something about yourself which other people will never quite come to terms with. Which, again, I accept as simply logical – you are distinguished by what makes you different from the majority, fair enough.

But ah well, what can I do? I just hope the aspiring Eurasian actress fifty years, a hundred years, however long it takes from now, spares me a thought. Because I’m sometimes jealous as fuck of her.

When it comes to voting, I’m a Cocozza-over-Cameron kinda guy.

I rarely vote for anything which is going to change the world, although I do feel partly responsible that my 35p donations for Little Mix have all but ruined Jack White’s music credibility. 28,000 Friends, Imma let you finish, but Seven Nation Army is the worst X Factor single… OF ALL TIME!

But I’m thinking about changing my view on voting, and it’s all down to sweeties. I often go shopping for confectionary, mainly because I am still a child and use words like ‘sweeties’. On one of my recent adventures, I fancied some chocolate. This in itself is rare for me, as I’m more partial to something fruity, like Wine Gums or the humble Jelly Tot. I leave the orange and green ones until the end, because they burn my mouth and I like it.

When I do want to release my inner Augustus Gloop, I usually opt for a Kit Kat, Chunky if it’s available. It’s not a particularly adventurous choice, but I feel it sits somewhere between the unrelenting masculinity of the Lion bar and the quivering effeminacy of the Bounty. If Kit Kat Chunky was a contestant in Playing It Straight, he would be a very camp builder. He’d be skilled with his tools (steady), but he’d substitute wolf-whistling for an ‘Oh hey, Bernice!’

However, change is afoot. Go into your local purveyor of foodstuffs and you will see that the original Kit Kat Chunky has gained a few brothers and sisters. There’s Double Choc and White Choc (the Wonder and McCartney of the family) and then there’s Orange, who is always looking nervously over his shoulder for a bloke called Terry.

If you’re fortunate, you’ll see another member of the Kit Kat brotherhood, but on my recent sweetie trips there has been a gaping hole in the confectionary display. This hole is the throne of the elusive final brother. Some have said that he is the King of the Kit Kats, but catching sight of him is almost as difficult as finding Pinsir in the Safari Zone.

This is the Peanut Butter Kit Kat, the Elder Wand of chocolate bars, the holiest of holies. Some naysayers said nay to such a controversial addition to the Kit Kat family. They said that some fella known only as Reese would never allow the chocolate/peanut butter combo to be copied, especially not with a buttery, biscuit base. Reese thought the whole concept was Nutrageous, and wouldn’t be left to pick up the Pieces when the plan failed.

Unfortunately, the four new brethren can’t stick around for too long. If they are unwanted they will be melted down and used to cover Jodie Marsh for her next bodybuilding competition. Only one can survive, and this is where my new stance on voting becomes relevant, because you can go onto the Kit Kat website and keep your favourite on the shelf.

I don’t wanna sway your vote too much, but I will say that Peanut Butter has some great policies on university fees and being really tasty. I want everyone in Cambridge (but nowhere else) to pick up their laptops and vote, because Oi want Peanut Butter in the foinal. Potato!

There’s a skip outside my window and once every two weeks it gets emptied at roughly (I’m not OCD) 5:32 am.

This wakes me up; but I’m not bothered by the beeping, grinding (who doesn’t love a bit of that), and wrenching that invade my Friday morning sleep.

No, I’m troubled by the slow, unerring accumulation of mattresses and furniture as the skip slowly fills.

I can’t help thinking, whose mattress was that? Who shagged on it? Did they love each other while they made ‘love’ on it? Or did they break it by trying to make some sort of fucked up Meccano from the springs? Or was it just an old one, and someone’s bad back needed good lumber support, so it had to be cast away.

Perhaps these thoughts caused ‘the mattress dream’.  So called, because it was a dream about mattresses.

I’m sitting in formal hall, getting wound up about trying to save spaces for friends, despite being entirely alone. Then (you’ve guessed it) in come the mattresses, somehow managing to clutch bottles of wine and stride/flop in wearing their gowns.

In short, after much conversation about staining and regular turning, and other chitchat regarding general mattress maintenance and cheese courses, I realize the hall is full of every mattress I’ve ever slept on.  The sandy, itchy one I slept on in Jordan, a fair few rubbery ones from hospital, the lovely squashy double one from a B&B in Sussex, the twins from the bunk beds that I only got rid of last year…

I wasn’t struck with nostalgia, but complete terror at how immeasurable life is. How, in so many odd ways we cross over with strangers. Even my embarrassingly uneventful life has spread itself (for want of a better word) across so many beds that I’ve lost count.

I have thought about this too much: yesterday a hollow on one side of my mattress, along with other evidence, lead me to wonder if the last person to have my room had a penchant for a very, very, particular kind of nocturnal activity. This went far beyond the point at which I should have pulled myself together, let it rest and watched Sherlock on iPlayer.

All the same, I can’t help but feel, as another mattress is tossed in the skip, that we should spare a thought for the ghosts of nights past.

A night to remember

A bit, between the sheets,
An evening and that stretch before dawn,
Set off by a yawn
A sigh, a moan –
Or a murmur then rest.
Remember this one, it might be the best.

Oh dear, I have been a naughty boy and caused rather a stir. This email arrived in my inbox on Tuesday afternoon:

“Dear…

Please report to my office first thing tomorrow morning. Your supervisor, Professor X, has explained to me your decision to boycott this morning’s supervision on the grounds that your supervision partner’s tracksuit bottoms were “inappropriate and offensive”.

This kind of behaviour is unacceptable and needs to be discussed.

Best,

Professor Y”

Some acquaintances have lambasted my dogmatic intolerance, but more fool them. Tracksuit bottoms are toxic to our society. This is not an opinion I hold passively; I consider myself an activist in this noble fight. I spent the aftermath of the London riots doing my part to ‘clean up the streets’. I went in search of any participants of that peasant party, providing them with a list of retails stocking well-priced trousers. Similarly, I am wholeheartedly opposed to this talk of increasing university fees. With reduced wherewithal, how will students be able to purchase proper legwear? It’s absurd. I thought I found a solution this week and subsequently spend most of Monday drafting a letter to convince Stephen Hester to take his £963,000 bonus and donate it to my Chinos For Chavs Foundation. No response just yet.

I refuse to be labeled an intolerant dogmatist. I permit the use of the tracksuit bottom in sport and, ever since my teenage ‘Baroque freestyling’ fad, hold a mild appreciation for the formative role they played in defining the early hip-hop movement. However, this is a university and when that baggy, ash-gray concoction of cotton, logos and elastic waist bands come knocking… We must stand up for what is right.

“When in Rome do as the Romans do”. Not that I dabble in your borderline-autistic social practice known as ‘a swap’… but I can be sure that once in a whilst a guest presents him- or herself bereft of the lowbrow, smutty fancy dress required. And this person will most certainly be thought of as a cretinous buffoon! Invite me for a game of Real Tennis and my tracksuit bottoms may just come out! We must demand better from those who perpetrate the codes of dress that underpin order in our society.

Alas, my disciplinary meeting was not the erotic fantasy I have always dreamt of. There were no sultry voices, no pacing around the rooms and no threatening whispers in my ear. I took the criticism offered and retorted with characteristic courage, convincingly laying out the points I have addressed to you here.

I now find myself temporarily suspended. This velour-infested institution has shut me out for nothing more than pointing out that it has lost its way. Such is the price for the principled in this sportswear-strewn wasteland.

These are the moments in life that test the character of a man. Martyrdom is the plaything of the foolish, but what choice do I have? No doubt I will be labeled a terrorist by the hegemonic powers that be, but I hereby declare my crusade: I will not return to this University until it returns to itself by banning that most inappropriate and offensive vulgar item of dress that is eating away at all that is good and true. Those with me: to Jerusalem!

“Do you ever feel like you’re on a knife-edge between things being seriously great or just a bit shit?”

Not exactly the gyp room repartee I expected from Maud as we sampled Covent Garden’s finest edible delights. Perhaps it was the Chaucerian tome lying resolutely shut on the table between us that yielded such a gem. Nevertheless, crashing determinedly on towards Week 3, the empire of paradox we inhabit becomes ever clearer.

Start of term is always great. Great reunions, great intentions, great piles of untouched holiday work. No sooner have you pulled on your dancing boots for Week Zero Cindies than an email pops up from a supervisor expressing their excitement for reading the hyped-up dissertation draft you managed to stall for the majority of the previous term.

Perhaps you’ll hit Cindies anyway, before remembering when you get there what an absolute dive that sticky-floored, DJ-inhabited hell-hole actually is (“OGGY OGGY OGGY!” Bugger off.)

Maybe you’ve been looking forward to a much-needed burst of independence, after barely clinging to sanity over that most familial of festivals we have recently left behind. But then you remember the kitchen cupboards don’t replenish themselves and you’ll actually have to like, go to Sainsbury’s to procure food.

Even simple pleasures like being reunited with our rust-bucket bikes are easily soured. My pleasant ride to Sidgwick last week was rudely interrupted by what seemed to be a small typhoon. Looking like I’d had an unfortunate encounter with The Thief’s Downfall, I also realised upon arriving that my oh so very on-trend midi-skirt had been caught in the back wheel for the majority of the journey, not just ripping it to shreds but kindly revealing my posterior to most of the world. I had thought people were nudging each other in joint approval of my classically quirky Cambridge style as I pedalled regally past the UL.

They just wanted to know why my arse was hanging out.

Mind-stretching and brain-shattering, heart-warming and vomit-inducing, life-enhancing and soul-destroying, we face six more weeks of unadulterated intellectual and emotional pandemonium. In the words of my most revered uncle Brian, (congratulations to those who spotted the connection) “This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is perhaps the end of the beginning. And Saturday, is treat day.”

Onward Cantab soldiers. Onward.

The first of our culture-focused Guest columns goes to Tab stalwart and Culture Editor Joe Bates. If you’ve got an idea for the column, email a pitch to culture@cambridgetab.co.uk.

I’ve always wanted to try stand-up. I mean, it looks so easy. You stand up, you tell jokes – how hard can it be? I’m a cocky shit, so I don’t really have an issue with nerves, and I’ve always enjoyed public speaking.

But I’m not as stupid as all that. I know it must be hard. Everyone always says ‘It’s the scariest thing in the world’. But to me, that’s like a red flag to a bull. The higher the risk, the higher the prize. And of course, auditioning for a smoker doesn’t cost you anything…

All that said, it took me long enough to put myself up to the task. I was definitely more scared than I thought I should be. There was something somehow magical about comedy. Comedians are like a magician’s hat – you can look up close and find nothing strange. But suddenly, with what seems like perfect ease, the comedic rabbit is pulled out of the hat.

Eventually, after more than a few drinks, I found the balls to apply for an audition. I pulled together a set with more tenuous, unfunny metaphors than this article’s third paragraph, and strode boldly off to audition for the Newnham Smoker.

I won’t take you through the details of my audition. It was cruel enough to inflict those unfunny four minutes on the two people in the room. Needless to say, they were lovely and the process, despite its natural obstacles, was surprisingly pleasant.

Because my failed audition taught me two things of use. Firstly: I’m not funny. It’s not that I’m dull, I just can’t quite make people laugh. I won’t stop trying, but it’s good to know where I stand.

Secondly: I’m wilfully ignorant of my own shortcomings. I really, really want to be good at the things I haven’t yet tried. This has its downsides – I worry I come across as brash, and that I don’t give my friends’ achievements as much respect as they deserve.

But it does make me do stupid things, and for that I am glad. Because Cambridge is a place where you can try out an absurd number of things. The culture scene in this university is much more open that I sometimes give it credit for, and I’d never have got involved if it weren’t for a streak of foolhardiness.

So if you’ve always wanted to try to make people laugh (or cry – that might be easier), then give it a go. You’re unlikely to be a terrible as me.

I were on telly this week.

Those of you who have been following my illustrious television career will know that this was not my first appearance on the box. You may remember me from My Super Sweet 16 UK (met Danielle Lloyd), Big Brother’s Little Brother (hugged Dermot) and The Wright Stuff (convinced the host that TOWIE was like Shakespeare, or summink).

But I craved something else, something more stimulating than staring at a glamour girl’s tits. So, last April, I applied to go on a quiz show called Pointless with my brother.

For those of you unfamiliar with the show, the best way to describe it is like reverse Family Fortunes. You don’t want the top answers or a new fridge freezer, rather the answers that no one can think of. For example, you say Helen Mirren films, and I avoid The Queen and say Legend of the Guardians: The Owls of Ga’Hoole. Simples.

Once we had got on the show and the BBC had decided that we weren’t escorts or wife-beaters, we had to choose what to wear. The information pack has lengthy guidelines for this. Normal person colours like red and blue are a nish-nish, while any mention of stripes will inspire a raised eyebrow from the production team. For me, Bretagne never goes out, so I had to dash to Plain Clothes R Us (or H&M) and purchase some nice purples, burgundies and mustard yellows.

One of the recommended options is the Hawaiian shirt, which suits most of the loonies who apply. We arrived at the BBC studios at 9am and spent the entire day nodding and smiling at the banalities of the bizzaros. If you get chatting to the contestants for long enough, you’ll find out that Pointless isn’t their first venture into quiz shows. Oh no, they’ve been on In It To Win It with Dale Winton, and they’d have got onto Eggheads if it wasn’t for Kevin’s trial. He was acquitted, in case you were wondering.

It always struck me as odd that contestants on Big Brother could become so attached to each other in a short space of time, but let me tell you, if you’re stuck in a green room with the same people for 8 hours, Trudy from Scunthorpe will start looking a lot like your mum. As the day wore on, our new friends would be called to the studio, soon to return as our rivals, wearing poker faces as we were not allowed to discuss the show.

The mystery and boredom eventually got too much, so we broke up the day with regular toilet breaks, where we bumped into The Saturdays. The girls had just finished performing on some hip kid’s programme, and were quite sweaty. We renamed them The Monets and lit a candle for Marvin JLS.

Eventually it was time to film. We made nice with former Trinitarians Xander Armstrong and Dicky Osman and went into #BEASTMODE. Not to put too fine a point on it, we smashed it like Redknapp Jr and received a large tax-free sum like Redknapp Sr.

I have been talking about my experience on Pointless ever since, and although my friends have been told otherwise, this column will not be the last time I go on about it. And why shouldn’t I brag? I’m gonna be on Challenge repeats for the rest of my life!

You can  watch Rob on Pointless on YouTube

Trudge, trudge, oooh Office sale, stomp, stomp. I really don’t want to read anything today…

God I am a cliché; brogues, satchel, mannish glasses… why are there so many bloody puddles…should I have brought highlighters with me? Need to ring mum, need some more money.

‘Oh you have lovely eyes!’

The words come from a friendly and attractive man; he isn’t too short, and he’s got that sexy blue-eyed/black hair thing going on. Maybe he’s a singer, in an alternative indie band, yet with a surprising background of classical training. Bet he writes the lyrics, he probably likes Philip Larkin as much as I do.

‘Oh… er…hello, thanks, howareyouwhat’syourname?’

Only after this mad moment do I look down to see him clutching a bucket branded with ‘Save the Children’. Firstly, I am impressed that he grabbed my attention with vulgar ease (but then I was on the way to the faculty), but also annoyed and affronted that such a weak line had me stopping in my ‘I’m so Cambridge’ vintage-clad tracks.

A moment later I’m violently ashamed that I had forgotten about the charity factor altogether… because it’s obvious that what matters is not whether this stranger actually thinks I have lovely eyes. Anyway, I prefer the NSPCC.

Distinguishing between sincerity and flattery is a constant struggle for my slop-bucket brain. Either I’ll refuse a compliment so many times that the giver gives up and walks away to find a saner person. Or, as described, I’m far too impressed by it and visibly jellify. I cringe in remembrance of the few times when, faced with a well-aimed compliment, I’ve forgotten my principles, name, dress size, or self-respect in a second.

My fear of possible impending compliments is increasing day by day. Maybe I spend too much time at the ADC bar, the luvvie-ridden (but affordable and convenient for Sidney) den of the fabulous and land of insincerity. But it’s time I tried to accept that, on the odd occasion they do, someone isn’t just flattering me because they want something, or merely to fill silence. It’s too easy to confuse sycophancy with people being enthusiastic, or possibly even honest.

Perhaps next time someone pounces on me in the bar and says that they luurve me and have missed me sooo much, I should accept it isn’t impossible that they actually might? Or perhaps they are an evil flatter-witch and yet again I should’ve stayed at home and had another mug of Ovaltine, safe in the true and certain knowledge that I’m a sad wanker.

Flattery gets you nowhere
Grandmamma what wonderful teeth you have.
Yes dear, I’m going to eat you with them,
You dumbfuck.

I wasn’t expecting much from this first week back and especially not from Tuesday evening. I hadn’t felt ripe all day, not since that whistling homeless lady had offered a “Nice trousers”, to me as I passed her on my regular morning walk. Her comment was accurate but as a man of the arts, yet also totally sickened by homelessness, the interaction was deeply irksome. Nevertheless, stoic that I am, I self-pleasured to Wagner’s “Die Walkure”, took a swig of the good stuff and bolted out the door, delayed only by my uncertainty with regards to the appropriateness of a cravat for this occasion.

The reception room was charming, the company less so (distinctly multicultural) yet I soon found myself cheerily swooning between this ambassador’s son and that oligarch’s daughter, sharing with all my vision for a range of tweed erotica. “Hefner meets The Highlands”, I found myself repeating but they weren’t buying it. This crowd was pâté to my foie gras.

Salvation was delivered by text message: “Symposium at our house. Bring panache and class A drugs.” I quickly persuaded a vulnerable blonde and her clumsy boyfriend to join me; I thought some court jesters would be a well-received offering and had remembered how much I enjoy cuckoldry in January. We walked a slightly longer route (to what the profane would call ‘a house party’) because I didn’t want to risk seeing my whistling pauper again, a fear only heightened by the enormously seductive power of my trousers of choice.

Upon arrival, Clumsy was quickly anesthetised with a spiked cocktail. The delicate young creature and I, encouraged by some rather magical hors d’oeuvres and champagne, discussed the various merits of cashmere and the science of cunnilingus.   Yet within moments, the various substances working away on her brain had set her vagina alight. She grabbed my hand and led me upstairs. I was three-quarters of the way through performing my tribal mating dance when the boorish boyfriend interrupted. He mumbled something about the rugby captain and a strap-on before snatching his woman and darting home.

Not letting this admittedly disappointing theft mar my performance, I finished my dance to unexpected applause from a small coterie of thespians who had gathered by the door. A quick romp ensued, stop-starting to debate the upcoming ADC term card which I took as a chance to note some reminders: “Fortnums Thank You Hamper for DoS; Bullets; Hermes lubricant”.

Walking home in a cloudy dawn, my heart grew heavy and my manhood hungry as I pondered the mundanity of my life. Ahead, a blonde in a memorable dress turned a corner. Could it be? Without thinking, I darted after her only to discover the whole thing a mirage. Instead, before me sat the whistling tramp… “Nice trousers,” she said.