A Corpus Clockwork Orange

A revelatory swap report from a particularly sinister drinking society

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So there we were, 10 or so of us droogs, out for some real shenanigans that nochy. All of us malchicks were puffing away at our cancers that starry night on the way to meet our opposing gang of devotchkas, my brothers. We were what the millicents like to call a Drinking Soc, out in the cold, winter air on a Sunday eve swap.

That night we were in a real get-up, the heighth of DrinkSoc fashion: ties wrapped up on our arms, just above the rook to show our Corpus colours, beige chinos and reinforced brown brogues which facilitated some real horrorshow kicking. Then, O my brothers, to top-off our dazzling platties, we wore bugatty jackets with trimming, again displaying our majestic colours of scarlet and blue.

We were a malenky bit bezoomny already that nochy, having forced much of the contents of the college bar down our young litsos already. A combination of this and our lack of deng meant that a krovvy bit of dratsing was necessary if we were to dine in class with the young Damas.

Just me and some of the boys the morning after

As it happened, we were walking down Sidney Street with our glazzies peeled, where we found exactly what we had been looking for. Two nerdy Mathmo type vecks, looking as though they’d just come from a twelve hour stint at the old biblio, were sauntering down the street with thick thick books under their arms. Once they had viddied us fine young malchicks, those two mathmos were noticeably nervous and poogly.

Rightly so, you may say, and then you would be right. For, before they had time to put down their copies of Bertrand Russell’s ‘The Principles of Mathematics’ and other such nonsensical cal, Hugo – the most animalistic of all us droogs – had landed a bolshy smack right on the rot of the first Mathmo. Hugo continued, valiantly and alone, turning this previously innocent looking veck into a krovvy mess of purple and brown, leaving his litso looking like an exotic, but rotten, fruit. The other malchick was dealt with by a straightforward bit of 20 to 1, by us other more decent droogies.

These 2 weedy vecks had a surprisingly bolshy amount of pretty polly, which filled our pockets tightly, so we headed of to The Curry King to meet the devotchka Drinking Soccy. The devotchkas were dressed in the very heighth of fashion themselves, with all their groodies on show, in tight and short platties and make-up to match. One particular Dama with real horroshow flipflop big bobbing groodies on her made me want to do the old ultraviolence then and there – the in-out-in-out right inside Curry King – but I showed some decorum like a good little chelloveck and sat down at the table.

I watched as the devotchkas and my droogs stuffed their simple but malevolent litsos with the most horrid of curries, whilst I dined most frugally on mere naan kleb and poppadoms. I focussed instead on pennying their vino with the most sincere intensity to get the one with the real horroshow, bolshy groodies all drunken. By the end she was that at least, uttering the weirdest slovos, saying ‘oh oh oh’.


The Devotchkas

What was actually done that night by Your Humble Narrator there is no need to describe, brothers, as you may easily guess all, but the dama left my room all bruised and pouty, talking about calling the rozzes.

After that skorry bit of pol, I returned to my faithful clan of droogies and headed to the Disc-bootick: Lola Los. Inside there were crowds swaying away at some new horrible pop-songs and soon I was bumped into by some drunken veck, so I snarled ‘shut it and move on, thou gloopy dim’  to which he just smecked right in my litso. At this, my faithful droog Hugo went full on beezoomy, grinning as his clenched rooks went crack crack crack crack crack on this drunken veck’s dizzy litso. Ripped and unplattied, the veck lay as a vonny mess on the dance floor. Us other droogs watched, smecking at the krovvy scene.

But, alas, after said incident I was feeling shagged and fagged and fashed and ready to return to my room for a lovely cup of sweet, milky chai, whilst listening to some Ludwig Van, before bed. So this is what I did, o my brothers, and I had the most blissful of sleeps having left this terrible, vonny world of Drinking Soc swaps.