The Drury Diaries: “Google Me!”

Google Me

Like many men, I have always admired Katie Price, and have felt something of an affinity with her since losing the CUSU election.  Katie, as all true fans know, unsuccessfully ran for the seat of Stratford and Urmston in the 2001 General Election.  Our politics is poorer without her.  She may well be popularly regarded as not exactly an intellectual heavyweight, but when Diane Abbott makes the Labour front bench, who knows how far Katie could have risen?  I felt the affinity again this week when I heard that she had had been received only as an unrecognised nobody in a Miami nightclub and had resorted to screaming, ‘Google me!’ at fellow revellers.

On one level, I must admire her message; she doesn’t just opt for the “Don’t you know who I am?!” you occasionally hear from Union rising stars in the bar, but encourages people to be enterprising and find out for themselves.  It must be odd for Katie to leave an environment where she can’t move for being recognised and end up in a place where people just don’t care.  This got me thinking; will this be what it’s like to leave Cambridge?  An abrupt plummet into anonymity and irrelevance?  Will I be cosying up to strangers in Birmingham bars asking them to read this column and briefing them on the minutiae of CUSU elections?  I have much to do before I leave, not least find an heiress.

Stolen Identity

Well, not quite.  I was relieved of my Barbour jacket – and its contents – this week while speaking in defence of Western Civilisation at Port and Policy.  Oh, the irony.  I had spent all evening arguing that actually all could be well in our civilisation, and yet at the end, riding high on victory in the debate, discovered myself robbed.  And in a Church, no less.  I have completely changed my mind about Western Civilisation: it’s all over.

Tatty in all the right places. Goodbye, my friend.

What made the attack particular nasty is that I had recently adopted one of a good friend’s ‘life hacks’, to always carry a waiter’s friend.  I’d found one that fitted perfectly horizontally in my pocket, and it too is gone.  On reporting the crime to the Police, I was asked if I felt like a victim of hate crime.  They’d probably have teams of officers scouring Cambridge if I’d said yes.  Alas, my only option is insurance grovelling and replacement.  As a new Barbour takes an age to properly wear in, I have no choice but to host a Barbour-trashing party, where friends and I will attempt to recreate years of dirt and damage in a few moments. Any advice would be much appreciated.

And Newfound Identity

“How many Caius Fellows does it take to change a lightbulb?”, goes the favourite joke of our SCR. The punchline, “…change?!” entirely captures the spirit of the College; stoic and immutable. Caius, as I imagine it in the imagination of other Cantabs, has two characteristics: the seat of CUCA and home of shit food.  CUCA isn’t going anywhere, but shit food is rapidly becoming a thing of the past.  Many Fresher Cantabs make the mistake of inviting a Caian to Formal, expecting some sort of return one day. In my first year, my school friends and I thought we’d do exactly this; sadly I just couldn’t offer the hospitality they could.

The consequences of cheap reception rooms

But change is indeed afoot at Caius.  In part this is because Formal-Formals have firmly established themselves as part of our dining rhythm, thanks to a titanic effort from the outgoing Food and Bar Officers, Robbie Burnett-Stuart and Barnaby Lowe.  But also because we have a new chef, Ricardo Soares.  A new chef who, everybody agrees, is doing such magic he’s even had Kindbridges.  Dining at Caius is most definitely on the up.  So next time you get that hesitant invitation to a Caius Formal, or better, Formal-Formal, do accept.

The Mad Misery of May

Strange things happen in exam term, and strange things happen to people in exam term.  We all seem to become convinced that if at any point we’re not miserable, we are and have been awfully unproductive.  Colleges don’t help, of course.  Thankfully mine is alright, but I spent an evening at Churchill this week and the entire place is filled with startling signs about the regime of ‘QUIET PERIOD’: they may as well say fun is banned and jollity outlawed.  We all seem too scared to have fun, and too guilty when it happens accidentally.  Well, I hate to shatter the orthodoxy here, but it is perfectly fine to feel quite normal – even laugh occasionally – and have really quite productive days.