Image may contain: Crowd, Audience, Party, Tuxedo, Suit, Overcoat, Coat, Clothing, Person, People, Human

The Tab DOESN’T talk to Jacob Rees-Mogg at the Cambridge Union

The iconic, controversial Conservative MP doesn’t chat to the Tab on his contested views on gay marriage, abortions, and feminism


Following the Union debate on Brexit, the Tab *exclusively* did not sit down with Jacob Rees-Mogg for a wee natter on his fave topics: Brexit, being pro-life, and loving nannies but not the nanny state. Instead, I imagine what might have gone down if Mr Rees-Mogg (who, for legal reasons, will be referred to henceforth as Not Jacob Rees-Mogg) was not refusing to talk to the press after the debate this Thurday.

Not Jacob Rees-Mogg strikes a powerful figure as he enters the Union press room – his bow tie is perfectly in place; his hair deliciously coiffed. My heart flutters somewhat, but I regain my composure – I don't want Not-Jacob, who once admitted that he leaves nappy-changing to the nanny, to see me for the silly little woman I am! Not-Jacob trots over and introduces himself to the journalists, who of course, have now been reduced to a gaggle of giggling fangirls – or Moggies, as I believe is the official name (watch out Milifans!) His handshake is as firm as Theresa May's grip on the country and his voice is as soft as the Brexit his party is pushing for (if you keep up with the ins and outs of British politics as much as I do, you will know that means 'not very' in both cases ! !)

Image may contain: Woman, Girl, Female, Blonde, Person, People, Human

*sigh* What could have been!

"So, Not-Jacob," I begin, my voice breaking slightly with nerves, "What do you think about, like, that Brexit thingy and stuff?" The room falls silent. Not-Jacob's piercing eyes meet with mine; a palpable (romantic?) tension evolves between us in the silence. I can just tell my nuanced, provocative question has him stumped; the journalists from Varsity and TCS look on in obvious jealousy. "Hm, can we move on?" He (finally) retorts. Ha Ha! I win this round, Not-Jacob Rees-Mogg. The other journos press him on much more banal questions, and therefore get much more repetitive responses back. Like, ok Not-Jacob, we get it, women belong in the kitchen, but why has that been your answer for the last three questions on international trade??????

Image may contain: Tuxedo, Suit, Overcoat, Coat, Clothing, Person, People, Human

when he makes you laugh ? ? ?

Then the Tab gets down to the real nitty-gritty, demanding from Not-Jacob the answers to questions which have been capturing the nation's collective intrigue for weeks, nay months: "Does Jeremy Corbyn's jam taste nice?", "what type of sandwiches do they serve in the Parliament canteen?", and "has anyone ever accidentally spilled a glass of water on Theresa May, and how long did she take to start melting?"

Once more, the stony silence of a cornered man greets me; it dawns on me suddenly how David Frost must have felt when he interviewed Richard Nixon on Watergate. Varsity and TCS sit back in silent awe, scrambling to find questions to ask now that I have pulled out the big guns. Finally, someone makes some noise about how women should have bodily autonomy or something; another touches on like equal marriage being a human right??? Not-Jacob flusters, clearly still distracted by my ground-breaking attempts at investigative journalism (hi @HuffPo, hit me up xoxo)

Image may contain: Text

This is actual, real Jacob Rees Mogg's actual, real voting record – you couldn't make it up folks! (photo creds: www.theyworkforyou.com)

The interview closes with a final round of amateur attempts to cross- examine the Mighty Not-Mogg. Varsity dilly-dallies over a voting record which facilitates abuses of human rights and TCS tries to bring up some attempt to cover up war crimes (simmer down guys, this is Not-Jacob Rees-Mogg, not Not-Tony Blair!)

The climactic, final blow is thus left to me. I poise myself, ready for attack, as a thousand questions buzz around my head. I take a deep breath as I gather my thoughts. I can almost TASTE the Pulitzer. Mmmm. Metal-y. "Not-Jacob," I commence, as the room falls silent once more, "like, seriously though, which flavour of Jezza's jam would you recommend?" Not-Jacob, his mouth agape in shock at my sheer journalistic audacity, does not even attempt to answer my question. He stands up, turns to his entourage and hurriedly leaves the Union without a single word. It appears, ladies and gentleman, my work here is done.