Oxford's oldest student newspaper

Independent since 1920

Bexistentialism HT15 Week 6

In the world of bad analogies, I would have to say that my week has been like a very slow Chinese burn. But a slow Chinese burn is probably not the most interesting to read about. And of course, this column only ever contains those nuggets of gold-plated delight that you can find nowhere else.

So let’s move on from the feeling of pain, and talk about my Wednesday night. A classic tale of inebriation and regret? Not quite. Because, well, it seems my self-parodying technique has spilled over into another Cherwell realm. It appears that I am now the new Shark Tales presenter.

And so, shortly, I find my face on the internet. But the one thing to learn is that watching Shark Tales does not give you an insight into the presenter’s night. Or at least, not now I’m presenter. I stand on the bridge, surrounded by herds of drunken students. A tenuous rant on the selfie stick suddenly halts. I am abruptly caught in a Dante-style circle, shoves and arms thrust about me. It seems someone’s last downed pint has struck them sharply on the head. Animal instinct is released. Cameraman grabs me and pushes me through the drunken whirlpool. As we back off, the tussle multiplies. Fists are flung, and we freeze, unsure how to act.

Fortunately, Superman, disguised as a taxi passenger, jumps out of a braking car, and soon the initial mayhem is dissected. At this point, we decide it is time for a break. And so I find myself at 1am, in the coldness of sobriety, leaning against the wall next to Park End. Cameraman has stored his camera safely away, and we stare blankly ahead of us, as squeals emit from ebbing and flowing hubbubs. Cameraman puts his arm around me. “It’s okay,” he says. I spy the unmistakably obtrusive glint of a football tie, and realise my friend is in the smoking area. He shouts my name in dulcet and somewhat slurred tones.

After I explain why Cameraman and I are looking obtrusively mopey, a pep talk begins. In the midst of his drunkenness, he seems to still manage to persuade me into retrieving the microphone and returning to my role.

“To be or not to be?” I ask a passing stranger. “Fuck off,” they reply.

As I head home, I pass bedraggled multitudes, their aura unmistakably reeking of the Park End regret which will shackle the morning to come. Whatever else I’ve got myself in for, at least I’m safe from that.

Check out our other content

Most Popular Articles