Boris St. Johnson Breaks His Silence

You might be wondering why I, Boris St. Johnson, in the third term of the third year of my illustrious undergraduate career, would be writing about myself in The Tab, as though I were one of those delusional, attention-seeking columnists who consider their inane ramblings about essay crises and miserable love lives to be of any interest to the wider community.

Well, The Tab called me up and said, “it’s very simple Boris, we are going to run a story on you, and either you can cooperate by writing it yourself, or you can not cooperate and we’ll get one of our ‘journalists’ to write it.” Rather than prissily refusing, I thought that – given that they were going to write it anyway – it was probably wiser to do it myself, rather than let some attention seeking pseudo-journalist put the boot in. Essentially, what I’m saying is that Will Pithers blackmailed me.

Looking back at my first year, my rapid and inevitable rise at the Cambridge Union immediately marked me out as a gem among flint, a phoenix among crows and a conversationalist among a group of dreary finance-analysts. Here I was able to display my oratory, lucidity and poise, as well as my mastery of the tricolon, which was indicative of my – still present – willingness and capacity to succeed in any chosen career field; whether that be in the fiscal industry, journalism or politics.

Of course, procuring a significant amount of the Union fund to entertain prostitutes in the debating chamber was an unfortunate and, ultimately very costly, way to spend my 19^th, but we all make mistakes when we are young and I think that it is mistakes like these that make me human. I’m really just like the rest of you – one of the boys.

Joel’s throne, my easy chair

I have, of course, received substantial complaint for the time I supplied the then President of the Wyverns, Darius Schmucky, with the personal details of a particularly irritating TCS journalist, who had run various incriminating articles on Darius and his rather lascivious friends. Darius is a lively man, with a passion for honour and violence. He is also a close friend and, frankly, when I told him the journalist’s room number, the most I expected to happen was one or two black eyes and maybe a cracked rib. I am not a nasty piece of work and I must stress that nothing actually ever eventuated from this.

In fact, I must point out that I have been nothing less than a progressive force within Cambridge; a bastion of class and profligacy. As an example of this, I must make a confession: it was I that closed down The Mahal. Its very existence symbolised all that was wrong with Cambridge. The masses flocked to it as though it were great, whilst in reality it was simply a place of feigned and institutionalised mock-debauchery. Throwing naan bread at someone is not how hedonism should be done. Throw a bear at someone, and then we are talking. I always think to myself ‘What would Byron do?’ (WWBD). Anyway, this is why I bought The Mahal and am in the process of turning it into flats. You can thank me later.

The plebs are under the table

After all the scandals, the super-injunctions, the sex, the boozy dinners, the broken hearts and the academic excellence, you must all be wondering what I will do next. Of course, everyone around me assumes that I want to be a Politician, but I must admit that this is simply infantile and sycophantic speculation. Who knows which field deserves me? I currently do not. Of course, if the ball came loose from the back of the scrum, I’d instinctively grab the safe Tory seat, but, for now, that’s just hypothetical speculation.