A day in the life of a BNOC

‘What is the end of fame? Tis but to fill / A certain portion of uncertain paper.’

What people don’t know is that Byron’s line was actually predicting The Tab’s search for Cambridge’s biggest BNOC – a search for those with an ego big enough to fill the uncertain void of high brow student journalism.

So join us, as The Tab offers an exclusive glimpse into the life of a BNOC.

10.30am: I’m awoken by what seem to be the screams of devoted fans outside my house, but which are in fact the shouts of people protesting the plight of lobsters at an adjacent fish restaurant. My bedder enters, beginning to tidy my huge piles of correspondence covered with ardent scrawlings such as ‘Please come to Fitz, we are your biggest fans!’, ‘When will you next be in Life?’ and ‘YOU HAVE BEEN PLACED UNDER INVESTIGATION FOR NOT PURCHASING A TELEVISION LICENCE’.

10:40am: I can’t seem to find my lecture timetable. Oh well, I have coffees to go to and nepotism to exploit. Imagine if I was one of those people that was just paying £9000 for a library card.

10.45am: I’m in bed scrolling through the Instagram profiles of people I despise, noting how the retro colour fades of the filters fail to compensate for the irrelevance of their existence. My bedder offers a small prayer at my feet before leaving. She returns moments later to collect the Henry hoover which she previously forgot in star-struck haste.

11am: Shower. Yet another thing wet for me.

You can’t sit with us.

12.30pm: College lunch. I sit at high table, my slightly-damp tray adorned with the staples of the BNOC diet: lattice fries, mystery enchilada and Müller Corner. I’m surrounded by my various acolytes, who collectively form the glitterati of college life: mainly drinking society members and people with high numbers of likes on their facebook cover photos. I subtly googled all those words I just used.

1pm: With food finished, lunch relaxes into the important #banter phase. All the hilarity is documented on snapchat and we make a point of speaking extra loudly so our chat is broadcast to the hall at large. Freshers and other undergraduate strays at the lower tables gaze, too scared to look directly, but too in awe to look away.

2pm: The college library. Even BNOCs have to work sometimes and, despite being exceptional, I am no exception. I breeze into the Georgian surroundings jauntily carrying a refill pad and a pen from an investment bank recruitment event, my tasseled loafers gliding effortlessly over the plush carpet. Though an everyday occurrence, my entrance to the library is still greeted with a respectful silence.

Can’t you hear my cries for attention?

3.15pm: Usually around this time I take someone for coffee. Today it’s a first year from college: newly-elected a member of the drinking society but currently a mere SmallNOC. He’s got the potential to go far, perhaps as far as ModerateNOC. The venue is, naturally, outside at Indigo, allowing him to observe me receiving adulation from passing acquaintances/fans/birds-of-prey: everything the light touches is my kingdom. I allow him to snapchat a selfie with me to impress his friends.

3:45pm: Featured by Students of Cambridge whilst sauntering through Sidgewick. They loved my “oh I didn’t notice you there taking a picture of me looking natural and inviting whilst making a profound comment on society” look.

#relevant

4.30pm: The gym. Attracting attention as per usual, I note wryly to myself that I’m not only breaking a sweat, but also breaking hearts. My use of a dictaphone in the gym begets confused glances.

6pm: Dinner. The lady in the college servery, susceptible to my charm, gives me a larger than usual portion of macaroni cheese and mystery beef. The scene is much to the same configuration as lunch: if a bomb went off at high table now society in college would collapse for at least two days.

8pm: Drinks with #theboys (#theboys includes female friends but is always referred to as #theboys). On this occasion (Wednesday), #theboys decide on The Mill. On our way there I am stopped in the street by some Spanish journalists who have travelled across Europe to find out my favourite flavour of VK (apple, obviously) and whether it’s true that I’ve been offered an MBE for services to the Life smoking area.

11pm: I update my social media channels. The brand can’t slip. This may include: snapchats of #theboys, cryptic in-jokes and witty remarks about current affairs. I monitor this until a sufficient number of likes has been achieved. Failed posts aren’t mentioned or seen again.

1am: Even BNOCs need to sleep, and I am no exception. I pull back the duvet to discover one of the weaker fresher boys hiding there, he dives forward and clasps my knees, begging me to like his facebook status. I tell him that it wouldn’t fit my brand and there are some tears as I show him out.

“Here, have these skittles.” I say to myself, and my tears subside.

Alone again, I climb into bed and read a page of Peter Andre’s autobiography to confirm that I am still the bigger name, before sleeping the blissful sleep of someone who commands free entry at Cindies.