Porters on Tour

Just what do the porters get up to when everyone else goes home? Portering, mainly. But, this year, we caught wind of the news that 6 Cambridge porters were planning a lads’ holiday to Magaluf. We asked the head porter- Jake- if he’d like to keep a diary of the trip to be published in The Tab, and he agreed.

So: 6 porters, 5 nights, 3 crates of booze, and no rules. This is porters on tour.

Day 1:

Airport security proved a hassle. For some reason taking over 4000 keys out of the country is classified as “suspicious” and playing an x-ray machine drinking game “completely inappropriate”. Typical Stansted.

The frisking was prolonged but ultimately enjoyable

After a short flight and taxi we arrived at the hotel. The double-beds were a disappointment and I found the bathroom a little confusing. For some reason the toilet was a weird shape and had a tap sticking out of it. Weirder still, when I was using it Max started shouting “it’s a b-day” over and over through the door. Now, I’m all for celebrating birthdays, but it’s a bit odd to tell someone while they’re on the bog. Honestly.

Day 2:

We hit the clubs, starting with BCM-Planet Dance, mainly because of its outstanding selection of emergency exits. It was a bit empty at first, but got going after lunch, and really filled up in the evening.  Around midnight I found myself chatting to a girl who was a solid 7. I certainly fancied passing beneath her great gate if you know what I mean! Haha! (Intercourse). It didn’t happen. Probably because Pete kept trying to bring up Travis despite the fact that she hadn’t even heard of them. Pete loves Travis. Pisses me off.

Now, I spend a lot of time chasing girls over Orgasm Bridge, and I have been accused of sexism. This hurts, because at heart I’m a feminist. Case in point: two summers back I was chatting to a girl in Ibiza. Lovely as she was, when it came to the chest department she was lacking horribly. I don’t know much about bra sizes but there’s no way she was more than a nine. In all honesty most lads wouldn’t have even bothered talking to her, but, being the man I am, I still took her back to mine, still offered to give her one. Incredible. No boobs and I was still up for it. If that’s not feminism then I don’t know what is.

My wife agrees, too.

Day 3:

We awoke ruined from the night before. I don’t know if you’ve seen the film The Hangover but we certainly all had one!

At lunchtime Ted received a caution for repeatedly telling a tourist to get off the grass, before rugby tackling him when he refused. This is of course, porter’s instinct. But it has to be restrained when the tourist is actually a restaurant owner, and the grass the restaurant garden. We all called him a cock, so he cried a bit then phoned his wife.

Later, we saw a group of invigilators in the town centre. They spotted us too and we began to move towards each other – like the gangs in Westside Story, but without the camp clicking. The porter-invigilator rivalry stretches back to 2004, when an incident regarding borrowing chairs from the tutorial office set off a three hour fist fight outside Downing. It’s heated, intense and almost always violent, and just because we were on holiday this wasn’t going to change.

Put it this way: they weren’t in an exam when we saw them

Within half an hour we were in the midst of body-shot twister. The invigilators won, but we quickly drew level by winning a game of ‘who can pull the most girls in an hour’, scoring 0. (The invigilators scored -1 by accidentally pulling a guy). The night concluded with a game of ‘balcony jump’; the target being a hotel swimming pool. Although we took an early lead, it was only a matter of time before the inevitable happened: an accident. Raj, an invigilator, choked on a wasp that had flown into his can of Lilt. It looked like he was dead so, realising it was wrong to play on, we legged it.

Day 4:

Day spent answering questions about Raj in a police station. None of the police officers had heard of Travis either.

Day 5:

We were woken by a phone call. The temp porters we’d left in charge of our lodge were being held hostage by buskers. The ransom was over £50 and the busker who plays the saw was demanding six packets of Mini Cheddars. Richard began the negotiations but struggled because we kept hitting him with pillows and calling him a ransom wanker. After consulting The Porter’s Manual it was decided that the appropriate action was to return to college.

Craving a quad

On the flight home we discussed what we’d taken from the holiday. The first three suggestions were all pussy-related but Pete decided to mutter something about the real meaning of friendship. This prompted Max to walk over and drench him in Coke, which was completely out of order (the fasten seatbelt signs were still on).

And, before we knew it, we were back in college. Next year we plan to travel to the Netherlands, though this will depend on funding issues and whether we can convince Richard that it’s not fictional.