Issue No 33
Friday 18th February 2011
The Independent Trinity Newspaper since 2007
Leaguely challenged: A Plea From the Trinity Rugby Team 7
Jack Lewars: Saulty and Mugabe - My 6 Story
Feathers, Flirting and Pheremones: Attenborough at Cindies A creative view of the RAG Blind Date Ben Weisz The ritual begins shortly after nightfall. From across the plains of Cantabridgia, the rutting stags and nubile sows make their way to one of several pre-arranged feeding grounds. The anticipation is palpable as the annual migration begins. The male initiates proceedings, awkwardly shuffling across the room in search of his mate. Evolution has equipped him with various tools to locate the female. His keen sense of smell will help, as will his carefully-honed ability to match faces to stalked facebook profiles. Eventually, he locates the target. She is invariably a foot shorter than she let on, and not wearing the leather chaps she promised on her application form. Undeterred, the rites of February continue. The male helps the female to hydration, providing enough wine to lubricate proceedings. He adopts the wooing stance, legs wide, body open, slightly slouched in his bar stool. He begins the mating call – what, to untrained zoologists, sounds rather like a dreary drawl about erg times, rugby antics or hours of reading. If she is ready to mate, the female will feign interest, cocking her neck and playing with her hair. She may even test the water, using her adapted beak to fish for compliments, hooking them on with lines like “you don’t think all of us at Murray Eds are slags, do you?” This intricate process will continue for some time. Pizza may be consumed, the male displays by “flashing the cash”. The more extravagant he is, the more likely he is to be noticed. Those lower down the pecking order can be spotted by their less developed fans of banknotes, some not yet having shed the giveaway RAG discount coupons, a sure sign of a junior buck.
The female may be dull, but she is very picky. If she tires, she will feign an essay crisis, or worse, flee the nest when the male has his back turned, in search of pastures new.
The breeding ground
By now the ripe young couples have been whittled down. Only a quarter of the original flock will make it to the final destination on this most magnificent of migrations – Cindies. Here, the courting dances reach their most intricate, involving the flailing of all limbs and appendages independently of each other, in a show to rival even that of the lesser-spotted Oxford Toad. In the biological community, this is known as ‘grinding.’ Both males and females will need to stock substantial fluid reserves for this, the most intense part of the evening. Liquid is, however, sparse, and those who have failed to store up ‘prelash’ are forced to forage for overpriced VKs. This delays the mating process still further, the poorer quality of lash leading to mechanical difficulties in many of the evening’s interactions.
Kindly sponsored by
2 IN BRief In the morning, exhausted, the female will wake up in an unfamiliar burrow, next to a partner she almost certainly won’t remember. Once again, nature provides for her children. Like the birthing mother, relieved of remembering the pain of childbirth, the female blind dater is absolved of any memory of how she got to where she is at sunrise. Thankfully, her hardwired instincts will carry her back to her college via the crucial ‘walk of shame.’ Her only recollections of the evening will come to her second-hand, through the photography of avid ornithologists posted on social networking sites. She returns, weary, to her nest, until the cycle begins again for Thursday Life.
Friday 18th February 2011 travisty.co.uk
Overheard... >> It seems Jamie Oliver is making a comeback. One brave Trinitarian has been spearheading the revival of ‘The Naked Chef’. Culinary antics all round. >>Take a tip from Courtney Cox and indulge in some Cougar Town activities. Word from Burrell’s has it that one such lady has been seen ploughing some greener pastures...
Valentine’s Day: what we’ll be doing Em Thurston: I will be watching Bridget Jones, singing ‘All By Myself’ and regretting that I’m not yet in my thirties Freya Berry: Checking my post to see if my boyfriend has left me a letter. No? Bastard. Nick Morris: Pasta for one, dessert for two, wine for five. Lucy Lassman: listening to ‘I will survive’, ‘Independent Women’ and ‘I don’t need a man’ very, very loudly and on constant replay. Jenni Heeks: drinking from 10, pleasuring myself, going to the 1TQ party with my gays. Ben Weiz: I am to Valentine’s Day what Scrooge was to Christmas. I will spend it accordingly, peering venomously over the rim of my tasteless pint at the disgusting couples littering the bar, quietly judging them while I plan my future as a cat person with allergies. Alex Sault: handing over to the new TCSU treasurer. Simples. Rob Young: Catching up with Mad Men Series 4 and wishing he was married to the hot one Charles Barlow: I will be awaiting red roses, chocolates, and kisses from the boys (and girls?) of Trinity. Burrells E8, if you didn’t already know.
Letter from the Editor
As I remove Jason’s name from the Editor section, a feeling of immense power and sadness washes over me. Ok, mainly power. I spent most of my first editing session going through Facebook photos of me, so you guys know what your wonderful new editor looks like. I also have put some articles in the paper. I’m only a wee fresher so many of you won’t know who I am, but despite the above I can assure you Travisty is in safe hands. If you’d like to write for us, do send me an email on fb352 and we’ll find a place for you. And do come along to our meetings in the JCR - details are posted to our mailing list, just email me to join. The new Travisty will feature several regular columns, including subject battles, where columnists go head to head writing about another’s degree which they (preferably) know nothing about. Sport will be also included. Sassy Gay Friend, of course, remains. Anyway, read on and enjoy. And ignore the fact that I’ve stolen Jason’s signature font below. I’ve put an extra kiss to avoid plagiarism charges and show my greater love. Freya xx
Friday 18th February 2011 travisty.co.uk
TCSU and Zimbabwe. Obviously. Jack Lewars still angry
There is a peculiar quality to the elections of student unions that seems to attract skulduggery. Perhaps it is the strain of putting yourself before your peers to be judged; perhaps the irresistible lure of having that glorious ‘Junior Steward’ title on your CV in such a ruthless job market; or perhaps it relates to a constitution that gives a man actually running for a position absolute power over both hustings and counting the votes. Regardless, this year’s TCSU elections lived up to expectations – and it has fallen to this strikingly ill-informed reporter to speculate wildly about what happened and why. If you want truth, find someone in a blue hoodie. But if you want opinions that are uninterested, disinterested and ant’interested [The author here said in no uncertain terms that this apostrophe was imperative, so I’ve left it in - Ed], read on. The first sign that all was not well was hustings. To a civilian, a series of random events: candidates kept their speeches to a uniform length; the outgoing President asked most candidates a question; and the microphone suffered from ‘distortion’ during speeches. Only this reporter seemed to see the truth. Candidates stopped when the returning officer told them to stop. The President’s questions all came after the returning officer saw her raise her hand. The microphone only malfunctioned when the
returning officer blinked. Coincidence, I hear you cry. That’s what Mugabe said. In many ways, the Zimbabwean elections are an excellent analogy for these recent elections. Saulty turned every question into a 15 minute self-exculpatory diatribe, whilst denying hyperinflation and referring to her recent genocides only as ‘welfare reforms’; Dom Allen ran on a manifesto of ‘vote for me and I won’t burn your house down’; and Magpie made frivolous comments without ever really getting involved. Still, though, there was a sense of something more beyond the obvious actors of this inconsequential drama – an evil puppet master, towering over the candidates, with a stake in every election. I did think it might be Strawson, but who could argue with a man given such a resounding democratic mandate? If anything, securing over 3000% of the vote is a testament to his honesty, transparency and genuine size. There was one other dissenting voice in the process: Rumen was quick to complain about the obvious corruption of the vote counting. However, if the members of college have demonstrated one thing in this election, it’s that they heartily disagree with nearly everything Rumen says. They’re just all part of the machine, mate. If you feel hard done by, you can complain to the returning officer. Or you could, if he wasn’t packing a rough guide to Panama into his gold-plated canoe.
Incoming... Vicky Spence
fresh as a daisy
Well, thank you to those who voted for me and apologies to those who didn’t. I shall try my best to irritate you as little as possible. Handover week appears to have gone smoothly; the bank account is now mine, the stash lurks at the back of my wardrobe, and the Porters know that I am the one to shout at whenever TCSU makes a mess somewhere. My inbox is full of incomprehensible CUSU spam, but emails make me feel popular so that’s ok. Anyone who wants to join in the fun can contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org. If you didn’t read the manifesto or hear the speech, but have suddenly discovered a burning interest in TCSU affairs, I have a few plans for the year. I’m going to try and bring in group room balloting, improve the online room photos and descriptions, get you some storage space for the holidays and look into a pay-as-you go uni card system in the bar. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try my best. We have a really good committee lined up – look how keen they’ve all been with the streams of TCSU spam – so I’m expecting a year of excellent ents, wonderful welfare and generally smooth operation. Let’s hope I’m right.
Outgoing... Alex Sault
It has been an awesome year. I might have waved goodbye to my degree, but I will look back on my TCSU Presidency with happiness. From parties to pampering, condoms to Chlamydia screening, Freshers’ Week to food, the outgoing committee - and a fabulous committee they were - worked tirelessly to serve the needs of Trinity students. Our emails - the Marmite of the online world, perhaps - were undoubtedly an innovation (welcome or otherwise) from previous glib bulletins. There have been sleepless nights, there have been angry meetings and there has been the occasional panic concerning the Master Key of neighbouring College, but throughout it all the Committee remained in high spirits, joined - and forgive my sentimentality - in friendship. As the last few boxes of TCSU Property leave my room, I can be certain that I leave you in good hands. I have no doubt that Vicky and her committee will do an excellent job. And if I could leave her with one piece of advice, it would be to ensure that her Committee, above all else, remain firm friends throughout. For I do believe that this is the best way to weather the storm.
What’s Hot >> Sebastian faulks The geeky-sexy author of Birdsong and Devil May Care presents a BBC2 series on character archetypes in British fiction. Not already convinced? It’s also set to feature Simon Schama and Martin Amis, alongside some pretty racy theories about James Bond. >> The first & third trinity may ball Don’t be distracted by the boatie name. With tickets now on sale, four months of feverish speculation begins: Who will the main acts be? What should you wear? If there are three a capella groups in one punt, how many of their songs will you actually know? >> kedgeree Under the Sea, Under the Sea, Nobody beat us, fry us and eat us in fricassee? Sebastian should have been more concerned about becoming the scrummy Anglo-Indian egg-rice-curry fish dish. Delish. And occasionally at brunch in a wee ramekin >> the cinema The film adaptation of Kazuo Ishiguro’s heartbreaking Never Let Me Go is out now. The reptile western Rango is released in early March, with the voices of Johnny Depp and Abigail Breslin. Or, if you have no quality threshold, get excited for Justin Bieber: Never Say Never 3D... >> flowers on the backs Spring is sprung, and all that jazz.
Friday 18th February 2011 travisty.co.uk
Sassy Gay Friend Greetings loved ones, Come, come, come into my world... As Valentine’s Day has come and gone, so the love lives of my Trinitarians have done the same. Several of our... friendlier students have been at the centre of romantic drama fitting of any Nicholas Sparks novel. Firstly, one of our (if not the) most eligible bachelorettes was seen spreading her legs and spreading round her saliva at Burrells’ Changeover ent. Conquests included a certain musical Fresher (now what is his name?), an Australian (who can be medically classified as a ‘giant’ and who may or may not find beds a problem). There were also several non-conquests, including our favourite so-gay-he’s-not-even-gay Jewish friend. No one really knows why he said no – he should probably take his chances as they come. Après-Burrells, one of our most controversial students suffered a bump to the head and a drive in a police car on sexual assault charges. Word on the street says that she loved it.
Sex in Cambridge - and they said it couldn’t happen
Talking of sexual assault, a Trinitarian made the national (Cambridge-centred) news this week when a Varsity writer received a Blind Date form that employed what can only be described as rapey-er wit (if you’ll pardon the pun). Available for all to see, one particularly ‘hilarious’ aspect of it was the remarkably detailed drawing of a tied up nekked lady. Unfortunately said man does get a little bit gropey when drunk. It’s an occupational hazard of wannabe investment bankers. Of course this whole thing was one big, hilarious joke (about rape! Rape is hilarious! Forcing sex on someone is a hoot!), and the Varsity reporter took it way too far by having a ‘panic attack’ and bringing her big, brooding mate with her to beat up said date if he did actually try to rape her (I mean, he did tell her on her blind date form that he was going to do just that. Why would you lie about such a thing?). I’m not really sure who comes off worse in this. Actually I am. Rape isn’t funny. Clearly this Varsity reporter wasn’t ‘up for it’, but if you were looking for someone who was more *open* to your perversion, don’t make the common mistake of thinking that knee high leather-look boots and a cheerleading outfit makes someone a prostitute. It doesn’t. Honestly. She’s not a prostitute. That’s about it for this week, but I’ll leave you on this thought – it’s the Rice Exchange Dinner very soon, and if, like me, you’ve been invited to such an event, know this: free alcohol makes you do crazy things, like speak in a fauxAmerican accent; leave your phone with your DOS, or openly come on to girls when your girlfriend is right there. Be careful – keep it in your pants and keep it out of Trav. I mean you. Right, off for my back, crack and sack wax. Ciao, SGF x
Friday 18th February 2011 travisty.co.uk
Pride (In the Name of Love) rosie lintott
home counties correspondant
Like many bored, slightly pretentious young people, I have this notion that I am “basing my life” on someone else’s. ‘Someone else’ has included: the 12th century abbess Hildegard von Bingen; Nina Simone; Agnes Wickfield from David Copperfield; the adventurer Gertrude Bell; and Charlie Dimmock. But having spent the last few weeks devotedly watching old series of Spooks, my new template-for-life is Roz Myers. If you are familiar with Spooks and with me, I may strike you as more of a Ruth: that mixture of frump and fluster, trotting around the Grid with armfuls of documents and a willingness to express my desire to save the world at the expense of a credible script. Roz, sadly longsince blown up while trying to save the suspiciously fit Home Sec. from an Indian bomb, defected from MI6, wears a lot of leather and enjoys kick-boxing Mossad agents. She is the ultimate Ice Queen, and I aspire to be Just Like Her. It isn’t that I hate people or, like Roz, suspect them all to be working for Al Qaeda. She seems to have the work-life balance required for a Spook (work – 95%, life – 5%; let us not forget her affair with Adam Carter, nor that one episode where she gets cross with Harry for not defending her father after a failed coup). Work-life balance doesn’t exactly apply to me as I never seem to do much work, but I can appreciate her staunchness. At school, we had an anonymous Valentine mail, set up for charity by a girl in my house. Mostly a vehicle for sending joke notes to friends, you would pay £2 to send a rose (red, scentless, rather naff) to anyone in the school, along with a handwritten note. I got into some trouble
The Travisty Committee
Editor.....................Freya Berry Deputy Editor.............Ben Weisz Features Editor.........Nick Morris Webmaster.......................Bo Tian Secretary..................Lucy Lassman
when I sent a note to a friend who was moving to America. The upshot of the card was “best of luck in America”. The joke-point of the card was that it was structured as chiasmus, which had been a running joke in the Latin class that I shared with him. The ex-girlfriend of this friend assumed that my intent had been malicious and, not wanting to explain to her why the chiasmus was amusing and risk sounding condescending, I instead allowed her to think that I was a bitch. Roz wouldn’t care if people thought she was a bitch. She also wouldn’t mind sounding condescending, though I doubt a real-life Roz would know many 17-yearolds who didn’t know what chiasmus was. I have no doubt that I am a far bitchier person now than I was in the Upper Sixth, something I am not proud of. The problem with Valentine’s Day is that, like Christmas, people expect you to stop being a bitch. You run the risk of seeming in the first case bitter, in the second a humbug.
What’s Not >> political sex-appeal Think what you will about potentially dishy MPs like Louise Bagshawe and Zac Goldsmith. Meryl Streep as Mrs T proves just how fit Meryl is in comparison to Margaret. >>jolene from ‘jolene’ An awesome song about a truly scary woman. >>dressing down Not as in trackies and a dressing gown, but as in ‘I’m not dressing up. I’m going as myself.’ The Burrell’s Time Travel theme may have given all you killjoys the perfect excuse for jeans and tees, but there is surely no sight more glorious than a fully-grown homosexual in a bed sheet and Primark necklace.
But I have a problem with St. V, not because of the historical fallacy – we all know that St. George was Turkish – but because of people’s unquestioning faith in what is, in effect, his intercessory power. You do not have better sex because you observe his feast day. Nor should you change your behaviour just for one day a year – it isn’t honest, and it does you no justice. Roz understood this. Nothing could kick her off the straight-and-narrow, not even Adam Carter.
This Issue’s Contributors Jason Ehrhart Jack Lewars Alex Sault Jenni Heeks Nick Morris
Em Thurston Vicky Spence Jack Harris Ben Weisz
>> BBC RADIO 7
To be renamed Radio 4 Extra, the channel will also lose 75% of its children’s programming after a review by the BBC Trust. Not that children’s radio is necessarily where the party’s at: if the Travisty team were 6, it would definitely rather be watching Rastamouse. >> REAL ESTATE DREAMS
It’s all very well making a shortlist, but it can be pretty frustrating when every single window-seated Great Court set with a fridge and a ghost is taken before you even get to the Accommodation Office.
Friday 18th February 2011 travisty.co.uk
Subject Wars Lawyers: just for show? Surely not Lucy Lassman An historian
So I woke up early, as all good lawyers should, leaving behind lovely dreams of my New York penthouse apartment (just off fifth with a 360 degree view of Central Park) and started on today’s reading. Only 150 cases to work through and 10 books on Roman law this week. Easy peasy. Got taken out for breakfast by Slaughter and May (champagne included), then headed to the airport terminal that is the Law Faculty over in Sidgwick. Walked not biked it, a lawyer would never be seen on such a contraption. Appearance IS everything after all. Walk determinedly and avoid eye contact so no-one stops and speaks to me - I’m not an historian so I don’t have time to dawdle. Three hours of lectures. Standard. And unlike other art students who can get away with sleeping all week and just about manage to turn over one essay, we lawyers actually go to our lectures. Got taken out for lunch by Allen & Overy (champagne included). Returned to college to do some reading in the law library, yes us lawyers have our own library so we don’t have to mingle with the unfocused and undetermined. Went to my third supervision of the week where my supervisor assured me that I was doing fantastically well and would definitely get my summer internship and if I kept going as I was I could well be up for getting a
scholarship to Harvard to do my PhD. Well obvs. Take that other lawyers, not that I’m competitive mind you. Got taken out for dinner by Clifford Chance (champagne included). Got back to my room and did more reading, lawyers don’t have time to sleep in case you hadn’t guessed. Got much satisfaction from realising that everything I’m studying over the next three years I won’t use at all in my hot-shot city law firm job. So decided to go into banking instead.
A Day in the Life (haha) of an Historian (The ‘An’ is Important)
Nick Morris legal eagle
Spent today thinking about yesterday. Not in an academic way, it’s just I got this incredible toastie from the history fac buttery for lunch and it’s repeating on me. A lot of the afternoon was taken up alternately telling people about the toastie (cheese and ham, very greasy) and then moaning endlessly about Themes and Sources. You know it’s 5000 words? Plus bibliography! For every 100 words, I plan to spend one minute bitching about it. Productive. I went to the Seeley for a bit (we’re so g we don’t even have to say ‘library’) and faffed about for a few hours looking at medieval erotica and highlighting various appendages. No work done, but still quite a sense of accomplishment. We had a careers presentation this afternoon from some banks and law firms. The whole thing had an air of hopelessness about it – looking around at the sea of future bin men and women, I had to wonder what the point was. Left with a carrier bag full of prospectuses and despair. I think I’ll spend tonight on an “essay crisis”. It’s just like having a normal
essay but with added melodrama; in keeping with my words-to-bitch ratio, a solid 25 minutes of first class whining. Yes, and maybe some Facebook statuses keeping everyone updated continually on my progress. But first I need to post something about that toastie. You know I really thought my degree would be more like The History Boys. It turns out all they have in common is gropey teachers and poor life choices. Did I tell you about this toastie I had for lunch?
Friday 18th February 2011 travisty.co.uk
Yes Man - but actually, and funny, and without Jim Carey Nick Morris
Eager to please
So I spent the last week or so saying ‘yes’ to things. Any invitation, offer or request presented to me, I agreed to. And you know what? It was kind of alright. I’d like to say a week of impulse and caprice has converted me to a life of ‘carpe diem’, but actually it just means I’m a little behind on work and still a smidge hungover. It all started when a friend and I were talking about impulse and whim and just doing things on the spur of the moment (that sounds like a lie, but it genuinely happened). We decided to do a week of oui at the start of February, so that should things go horribly wrong, we’d have the rest of the month to make amends. On Monday morning, I duly informed everyone I know (Facebook) that I would be agreeing to do anything within reason. Immediately the requests came flooding in: as tribute to the original Yes Man, would I change my profile name to Danny Wallace? Yes! Would I download Sugarland’s new album (this was requested by Spotify)? Yes! Would I enter and come a close second in X Factor this year, purely for a friend’s own entertainment? Um, yes? Tasks ranged from the bizarre to the mundane, with some people taking advantage of my metaphorical bending over and others unknowingly inviting
me to things that I had to agree to. It was swings and roundabouts, really: one night, I had to go and see I play that I hate with someone that I love. The next day, I was forced to buy box after box of Farley’s rusks (surprisingly delicious). I had tea with our lovely editor, eating more biscuits than I was quite comfortable with and then drank more gin than the Queen Mother when Charles married that crackwhore. Later in the week, things started getting slightly more surreal. I said ‘yes’ to a weekend away in a windmill in Norfolk: “The ground floor rooms are fine, but upstairs the spiders have pretty much taken over.” I promised my brother that, upon returning home at Easter, I will cartwheel across the lawn – I have the balance of a drunken Mary Byrne, so this can only go well. Stranger still, I’ve secured a date with one of the most beautiful girls in college – I know, right – and am just waiting for someone to cruise in and make me a Valentine’s offer I literally can’t refuse. I suppose having written it all down, I had a pretty good time of it. For every spidermill, there’s been a G&T; for every painfully bad musical, a chocolate hobnob (It was a digestive - Ed). Would I do it for another week? Well if you asked me this minute, I’d just have to say ‘yes’. But please excuse me: Sainsbury’s calls. I’ve just run out of rusks and I need my fix.
Trinity Rugby Needs YOU. No really, they do.
The rugby squad trains rigorously and consistently every Thursday and Sunday for its fixtures on a Tuesday. The quality of play in matches has been intense with great ball handling and depth (sorry), lines that would make George Michael jealous and the athletic prowess similar to that of Usain Bolt himself. Predominantly by the opposition. However, without a shadow of a doubt, the point scoring process has been in our favour, with Trinity finishing the season with 7 points, just a mere 29 behind winners Jesus. Such points were received as a consequence of just turning up to the fixtures. Unfortunate injuries and a relatively small selection of players for the squad have meant that Trinity have, unbelievably, failed to make the cut for next years first division. This relegation opens up the field for next year’s selection, so if you’re relatively big or quick: down your calculator, put that book away, stop colouring in and come down to train and represent your college, because quite frankly, we can only get better. As a handy checklist, we ask: do you fill this criteria… The Pack Eight handsome, muscular men whom you would gladly give your beverage and food to, and you would with out doubt, want to marry your daughter. They are intelligent, elegant, and sensitive. Truly the finest of the male gender. The Backs Seven men who will steal your beverage while you’re looking in the opposite direction, take advantage of your women folk, barnyard animals, and almost all tubular household objects. Often dine on humus, camembert and red wine. Regularly take blow dryers on road trips, wear bikini underpants, and carry STDs (AVOID AT ALL COSTS). All / some / any of these attributes?…then Trinity rugby club needs you!
Friday 18th February 2011 travisty.co.uk
Tutu Much? Em Thurston
Chief tutu commentator
you know, the lesbian ballet movie. THERE’S REALLY ONLY ONE.
Quack. Quack. Quack. The creators of Black Swan have succeeded in creating a film guaranteed to confuse and severely traumatise ten year old girls everywhere: a combination of ballet, Swan Lake and severe psychosis. Yet watching Natalie Portman romping around in Lycra and discovering her latent homosexual urges made me contemplate my own existence (as usual, you cry), and after a visit to the cinema that I can only describe as enlightening and scarring in equal measure, I’ve come to a realisation that has transformed my take on life. Within each and every human being there lurks a fuck off massive malevolent black swan beating its wings and furiously trying to get out. This shadowy element lies within all of us – that alluring, darkhearted mallard whispering in your ear that it’s perfectly socially normal to wear leggings instead of trousers, despite the fact that this will inevitably show front and back crack; the demonic duck inciting you to form a coalition government with complete turkeys just so that you can get a peck at the best pondweed; the sinful signet quacking quietly that it’s not illegal, just ‘frowned upon’. My own avian id skilfully wrenched the sandwich of my sanity from my hand last week in spectacular form. Having drunk my fill at the pond of Trinity College House White, I found myself slowly swanning (sorry) back to my nest through a certain circular court. However, as I waddled purposely, a terrifying transformation took place: the moon became a dazzling spotlight, Swan Lake rang in my ears and bam! The gravelled path no longer sufficed for a waterfowl of my calibre. It was time to dance across the green green grass. As I sissonned spectacularly across my turfy stage, I, like Natalie, came more and more to resemble the honking great goose that had always lain in wait. My eyes glowed red with evil intent, my black sequined dress might almost have been a festering swan carcass and my feet webbed, admittedly somewhat hampering my pointe work.
My progress across the New Court grass was further compromised as my heel caught in a pot hole, and I pirouetted like a ballerina on speed, narrowly missing a low-hanging branch. Beautiful! What style, what elegance! *****! I ran on, shrieking with laughter at my own grace and general slightly-subversive awesomeness, my black swan honking like a demon. Then, the house lights came back on. I realised with a cold sense of horror that my formerly invisible audience had in fact consisted of a fellow, his wife and evidently teenaged son, who had been stood watching with what I could only hope was silent rapture. While my inner Mancunian whispers manically that now is the time to make a tactical retreat, the long-necked bastard currently controlling my movements isn’t done with me yet. Instead of walking aloofly on, I execute a perfect deep stage courtesy and twirl away (on my toes). Finally, my black swan potential has been reached! I am an evil sex goddess, edgy enough to contemplate lesbian orgies and murderous psychosis without a second thought. But alas! I have been compromised by wine, and against all the evidence I attempt to push rather than pull and severely twat my face on the staircase door. The curtain falls. Thanks, Natalie Portman. Thanks.