Tab Rates vs. Tab Slates
Another week, another variety of things that really piss us off (and a few that don’t).
Week 7. You’ve nearly made it. Self-congratulating pat-on-back permitted.
eBay. You’ve exhausted Facebook-stalking possibilities (for at least the next twenty minutes until a few newsfeed updates roll in), you’ve watched everything worth watching on iPlayer and 4OD (and a lot that wasn’t) and you’ve even tidied your room (the last refuge of the damned). Procrastination help is here in the form of eBay. Addictive, with that all-important competitive edge.
Your bedder. By this point in term acting as both therapist and doctor, as well doing all those domestic tasks that you know you’d never do for yourself. Kind of like a surrogate mother, except better, because she unlike your own, doesn’t get yours and your siblings' names mixed up when she’s on her third glass of wine.
The Cash Machine Euphoria. You go up, clutching your card firmly to try and stop your hand from shaking. In it goes. Enter pin. So far so good. Amount requested – oh, go on, try thirty, why not. Processing. Pray. Yes! You make now take your card and wait for your cash! You still have thirty quid! And that whole queue of people isn’t mocking you!
Mook. On King Street, next to Darry’s: a veritable den of vintage delights and as yet undiscovered by the population at large. If you are experiencing Cash Machine Euphoria though, maybe stick to browsing.
The Christmas Tree. Squeezed in the corner of Market Square – don’t worry if you haven’t spotted it – right next to the building work they’re doing on Barclays. Nice one, Cambridgeshire Council.
Cambridgeshire Council. Getting arsey about May Balls (read The Tab's exclusive report here). While it might be a slight exaggeration that May Week's the only time of year we have any fun – oh come on, you haven’t really been spending all term working, have you? – we can still get self-righteous about this. Occupation of the town hall, anyone?
The Ice Rink. You might be sensing a theme – along the lines of ‘The Grinch Who Stole Christmas’ – but please. It’s wet, it’s cold, and you’re probably going to fall over and bruise your coccyx, resulting in a week of wincing when you sit down and a series of uncomfortable questions.
Late-night altercations with the porters. I’m drunk, I’m confused and, yes, I’ve lost my keys. And no, I can’t remember my room number. Wait – am I even in the right college?
Late-night altercations with the very drunk. Someone threw up at my feet last week. Then pawed at me with a vomit-encrusted hand in an effort at apology. I died a little inside.