A Day in the Life of A Drinking Soc President
In this EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW, the Tab gets candid and discusses the real issues at stake.
Have you ever wondered what it’s like being president of an elite, single- sex society?
(Think Chess club at school but the blazers are voluntary)
No, neither have I, and that’s exactly why I’m writing this article.
A few weeks ago I cracked open a cold one with Jeremy Spriggs- Buckle, a 3rd year economist, and president of the Titt Club, perhaps Cambridge’s most prestigious wine- without- cheese- organisation. Please bear in mind that whilst the contents of this article are entirely made up, it is all 100% true.
When I catch Jeremy he is mid slurp of a dark fruits flavoured Strongbow. “Hello, Jeremy”, I say.
“Salve!”, says Jeremy, beaming broadly. Jeremy seems like somebody pretty easy to talk to.
I start off simple- asking candidly what made him want to be president of an elite drinking society. Jeremy’s face heats up- a red flush crawls up his neck and onto his cheeks. “We’re not actually elite”, he says hotly. “We Titts have been doing loads of access work recently, and you absolutely don’t need to have gone to a private school to be one of us. You don’t need to pay your tuition fees upfront. And you can ABSOLUTELY [here Spriggs- Buckle bangs his hand on the table in front of us in passion, spilling his dark fruits cider, much to our mutual dismay] can have a maintenance loan. All you need is a glass of sauvignon blanc in one hand, and a healthy portion of misogyny in the other, and you, my friend, are in.”
Sounds pretty groovy if you ask me! A bizarre brotherhood of sorts. Jeremy agrees; he saw How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying at the ADC Theatre last term, and tells me that this is exactly what it’s like, except the singing is more a monotonous chant, and also without the American accents. He tells me (having replaced his dark fruits with a Fosters), “I was never very popular in school, I only got invited to my first house party when I was 18. We made ceramics and ate marshmallows around the kiln, it was traumatic, I didn’t even do DT GCSE, I was never invited anywhere again. So I knew when I got here, something had to change. And that change had to come from me, I had to be a fucking legend. An Absolute Titt, if you will”. Absolute Titt is the name the Titt’s give to their president, as he has absolute power over the society, according to the medieval concept of the Divine Right of Kings; he is the closest man in Cambridge to God.
“Who is God?” I ask.
“Is there a God? Is he loving or judgmental?” Jeremy counters. Our conversation had taken a rather sober tone, which of course was ironic. I gazed pensively into the abyss. Jeremy nibbled on a wine gum.
Being a Titt entitles you to certain privileges. I learn that Cindies doesn’t really close in exam term, that’s just what they want you to think. It remains open for the Titt Club only, and members of its alumni. Jeremy spends countless nights vibesing to the dulcet tones of Avril Lavigne, whilst conniving with important investment bankers and property Lords from all over the Home Counties. “People think it sounds boring when I tell them, but they’re forgetting we all have shit taste!”, Jeremy enthuses to me.
The Titt Club is something like Alcoholics Anonymous, in that it’s a powerful support network, and also nobody knows who’s in it. (Apart from the fact that I haven’t bothered to anonymize Jeremy in this article, so he’ll probably have to resign, which is a shame. Then again, he’ll still make it to the frontbench in about 10 years, so no loss really.) Although the difference in the type of support is profound. AA offers support through solidarity and shared experience of those with similar issues. In the Titt Club, discussion of feelings is strictly forbidden; this could upset a carefully constructed masculine ideal. It more operates as an echo chamber for those with far too much free time, and a misplaced hatred of minorities.
To round off our meeting, I ask what a day in the life of Jeremy Spriggs- Buckle looks like. He replies simply and honestly, a tear trickling slowly down his cheek, indicative of emotion deeply felt, a short quote from Kendrick Lamar’s hit single, Swimming Pools, (drank), a song that was definitely not written for people like him:
Pour up (Drank), head shot (Drank)
Sit down (Drank), stand up (Drank)
Pass out (Drank), wake up (Drank)
Faded (Drank), faded (Drank)”
It was time for me to leave. My cold one was no longer cold. It was warm. I shake Jeremy’s hand. He tells me we should get a drink sometime,
but in reality, we’ve already had several.