The Tattler

Will The Tattler find amour at a RAG night of love. Off to Paris to find out…

bellini Cambridge couture ivy leagues Jazz Oxbridge paris Piano romance tattler

In my earlier and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I have been turning over in my head ever since: go to Oxbridge or the Ivy Leagues for your wives, but never for your mistresses.

This week, he repeated that advice to me after a successful persuasion: “Return to your studies or find yourself cut off”. Terrified as I am of the life of the poor, I regrettably announce that the First Crusade against the tracksuit bottom is over…

Furious at my father for selling me out, yet simultaneously inspired by his romantic notions, I vengefully embarked on what many friends have told me was an inappropriate extravagance. Whilst charity has always seemed a deeply unnatural notion to me, I decided to roll the Cambridge die and submitted myself to the gods of love vis-à-vis RAG Blind Date.

I imagine that Vicki (her spelling, not mine) of Basildon-origins was somewhat bemused upon receiving a RAG form with nothing more than an attachment detailing transportation arrangements to Le Meurice at 228 rue de Rivoli, Paris. I was worried that my restaurant choice was a little clichéd but the godliness of their scallops with black truffles was too much not to share.

I was waiting in the bar with a Bellini for my incoming lady. The piano offered cool jazz. Unmatchable couture concealed slender bodies. The sophistication was unsurpassable and I was positively reeling with excitement at the daring lust or tender love that lay ahead! And then she arrived…

Entering with all the grace of a pursued boar, she tottered toward me almost spilling out of her short, sparkly High-Street-Sale-something. It/she approached and opened its/her mouth, littering the refined landscape with its/her ghastly discordance: “Hiya! I’m Vick-ay”, it/she grated, “I can’t bel-ayve wey-are actua-lay he-ar’”. Neither could I. I couldn’t believe that I was actually here. With it/her.

The tiresome, shallow nature of its/her conversation was, at first, soporific. However, by the time we were seated for dinner I had requested paper and a pen and was actively scribbling notes on this creature’s nonsensical output.

Much of our night comprised Vicki reading aloud to me. Not works of erotic literature but, rather, the digital updates of her acquaintances’ liaisons back in our university town. Their doings were a dismal and unwelcome education for me. I was baffled by this brave new world. Are people really content with this uniformity? Could it be that they are genuinely satisfied with the Facebook stalking, the chain restaurants, the ‘dressing down’, the banter, these Vans of Mortality, this post-Cindies “porking”?

My father’s advice now seemed desperately out of touch. Oh, what for Romance, Cambridge?

Vicki quelled my concern and assured me that our cohorts were not all bad. “It’s fun,” she said. “Let me show you.” Knowing all the words to My Fair Lady by heart, the invitation was irresistible. Leaving the glistening lights of Paris, I went in pursuit of the Cambridge gutter…