The Lent 2014 Prophecy

Worried about returning to Cambridge? Don’t be. According to BEN DALTON this is the term where you become God.

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Here at the Tab we’ve put 2 and 2 together (your star sign and the direction your Lush Bath Bomb twirled the moment you introduced it to water) and the news is good.

Not only will the arrival of the Prince of England enable you to re-enact that scene from William and Kate: A Royal Romance where William says “Core Blimey!” upon seeing Kate, to which his friend says “you can say that again!”, to which William replies “Core Blimey!”; everything you turn your hand or mind to will turn to gold.

Do not crumble in the face of the following Lent milestones: they mark the route to your fast-approaching stint as monarch of the universe / moderate BNOC in Churchill MCR circles.

Hermes will invite you to rowing boot camp

You might think that Hermes says this to all its email users but you’re wrong; this time it’s speaking exclusively to you. Hermes has taken stock of those palatially broad shoulders, sturdy wrists and the way your abdominals seem to have filled out over the Yuletide period. Hit reply, grab your Oasics and run to the ergs as fast as your girthy, powerhouse thighs will take you. Upon arrival you will realise that, not only is your 1000m split better than the average Blue’s, but your bulge looks magnificent in your unisuit and bounces voluptuously during burpees. Block out the motivational tunes your trainer is playing from Disney’s Mulan: you are the very portrait of intellectual virility. Scream like Venus Williams on every crunch of the oar. Smile as you are sprayed with Moët on the winner’s podium.

You don’t need this…

The ADC will ask you to write a play

Usually people have to apply to put on plays, but not this time. The ADC has a gaping hole in week 7, fancy a domestic tragedy with a soft centre, and know you are the one to pen it. Waste no time in grabbing a Teapig from Sidgewick buttery and spilling ten thousand words of the most devastating, yet oddly euphoric verse onto your Acer Aspire. Get into the private taxi the ADC rang for you, shield your face from the paps with the aforementioned Aspire, and hand over your hit-scribble to the man in a suit and gloves. The ADC will tell you that, although they hadn’t expected rhyming couplets throughout, the format actually works brilliantly well and serves as a comment on the way art constructs reality in working class Britain. The play will sell out weeks in advance and you’ll be interviewed on This Morning. Following this you will enjoy a sublime ratatouille with Holly Willoughby in the ITV canteen at which point it will become known to you that your play made next year’s Key Stage 2 syllabus.

You will be offered free queue-jump to Fez

The unadulterated Simon Burdos experience. Having seen your play, read of your athletic exploits and possibly encountered your incandescent lycra package in a candid Ask Jeeves Image search, the heads of Cambridge nightlife will want your face on everything. There will be cocktails and mocktails named after you in Baroosh, Tiki Mugs moulded in your image in Lola Lo’s and your well-attended signing at Fresh Tuesdays will win you lifetime queue jump at Fez. You are living the Lauren Chaplin dream and this makes smile upon waking up every morning.

The dazzling aesthetic of your future

You will induce back-hair erection in your supervisor

What you say about the ethics of trauma in the works of Duras in your next supervision will really hit the spot. It will certainly teach your compatriots on the sofa to see the wood for the trees and make your supervisor shift weight from one buttock to the other in her armchair in quiet rapture. Hairs will stand on end upon every intellectual neck in 1st Court. Having read your essay aloud to your supervision partners to serve as a future example, your supervisor will retain you at the end with a gentle hand gesture before asking you to give your paper at an upcoming international conference. You will agree modestly, before ordering a custom made off with the money you have made from all your above exploits. The conference will go swimmingly: Judith Butler will introduce you to the lectern as “friend, confidante and muse”, before returning to her seat on the front row to cheer and applaud you throughout. Following the conference you will light up Jstor’s most-read lists and you will be offered a cameo in the sequel to A Beautiful Mind. The filming will clash with your finals, but you will be excused from taking the exams and receive an automatic starred First and an unexpected Honorary Degree from the University of Aberystwyth.

The Dermot O’Leary to your X Factor…

The term ends with you as strong and bulging as John Hamm, as beautiful as Olly Locke and as artistically devastating as Sylvia Plath. Now stop moaning and go pack your bags. You will be superb.