I’ve never stepped foot in a casino, never had a cheeky flutter at Ladbrokes, and as for the lottery, well unless we’re talking about having chips and Chinese gravy from Wok n’ Roll (will you get stomach cramps, won’t you?) then no, I haven’t done that either. Working with formulae, statistics and probabilities all day means that, the way I see it, it’s pretty likely that these people are better at their job than I am at making what is in effect an uninformed, emotional and hasty guess. However, this column is charged with both making and saving you money, so in the name of thorough journalism, this week I broke my twenty-one-year gambling embargo.

I’ve never stepped foot in a casino, never had a cheeky flutter at Ladbrokes, and as for the lottery, well unless we’re talking about having chips and Chinese gravy from Wok n’ Roll (will you get stomach cramps or won’t you?) then no, I haven’t done that either. Working with formulae, statistics and probabilities all day means that, the way I see it, it’s pretty likely that these people are better at their job than I am at making what is in effect an uninformed, emotional and hasty guess.

However, this column is charged with both making and saving you money, so in the name of thorough journalism, this week I broke my twenty-one-year gambling embargo. After a delightful dinner at Noodle Nation (even a ‘money-saving expert’ has to splash out sometimes), I saw the opportunity to observe others at work in their natural environment – Ladbrokes – in the hope of picking up some tips before I took the plunge.

The game of choice, it turns out, is the Roulette, but don’t be fooled; this isn’t the roulette of the movies, with a vast wheel spun by a cool croupier, surrounded by cheering punters. In reality the device in question was a jumped-up ItBox–like machine, resplendent with grubby fingerprints, a coin-in slot and a surly attendant at the main desk, which some-what diminished the charm of the whole experience from the off-set. Again, unlike Hollywood would have us believe, with professional gamblers carefully placing chips in a seemingly random yet meticulously calculated pattern across the betting mat, the only acceptable strategy here seemed to be to pump money into the machine, a pound at a time, with each pound being put solely on red or black. The punter would be obliged to reinvest any winnings, seemingly until bust.That is, unless the total reached the value of a meal in Noodle Nation, satisfying the need to ‘win back the meal’, at which point an unnecessarily loud and conspicuous cash-out would take place. 

To me, the whole spectacle seemed no more than the modern day equivalent of the tuppence arcade machines. For anyone bereft of the joy of experiencing these first hand, these consisted of a glass fronted arcade machine with multiple platforms, all piled high with two pence pieces. Undulating mechanical arms swept backwards and forwards, titillating the user with the suggestion that they might just push a couple of the coppers off their respective ledge and into the collection box below. Children spent hours naively plugging in more and more coins until finally, the threshold would be reached, upon which a depressingly meagre pile of coppers would be toppled into the collection box. These would, of course, be immediately reinvested in trying to win even bigger, until they too were all gone, with no payout.

If it all sounds rather irrational, pointless, yet disarmingly entertaining then you’ve got the picture. This similarly applies to roulette machines, as I was to learn. Pumping in my first pound, I plumped for red, and doubled my money. Despite my attempts to cash-out, I was told in no uncertain terms that reinvestment was the best option. Reluctantly I once again pushed ‘all on red’. Black 21. Fuck it, I thought, and stormed out. Passing the nearby newsagent I popped in for a consolation Coke, where I thought I’d just check how much lottery tickets were, for the article you know… 

Making money as medical test subjects has always been a great student tradition, and who can blame us? In this year’s Freshers’ Fair, one company promised over £1.5k for three months of testing, which entailed no more than 15 hours of contact time. Now I’m not exactly drawing heavily on two years of physics to tell you that that’s a good deal, and with overdrafts to pay, stash to buy, and the prospect of yet *another* summer with the financial burden of having to go to Zante on a two week bender, for some these kinds of offers are too good to resist.

Making money as medical test subjects has always been a great student tradition, and who can blame us? In this year’s Freshers’ Fair, one company promised over £1.5k for three months of testing, which entailed no more than 15 hours of contact time. Now I’m not exactly drawing heavily on two years of physics to tell you that that’s a good deal, and with overdrafts to pay, stash to buy, and the prospect of yet *another* summer with the financial burden of having to go to Zante on a two week bender, for some these kinds of offers are too good to resist.

Suggest this to your parents, however, and they’ll let loose an endless supply of horror stories, if not from a Radio 2 phone-in, then from a friend of ‘‘someone from the club’’. The more enterprising among you may have already tried to extort compensation from your seniors in return for agreeing not to participate, although your success will wholly depend on your powers of persuasion, and the size of your trust fund.  Ostensibly, their attempts to shock even the most cash-strapped and principle-free student into a cowering mess may be because they ‘love you’; well don’t be fooled. They’re almost certainly cashing in on the testing racket themselves, and want to keep you from getting in on the action. Probably.

Those trying to warn students of the risks of medical testing are overlooking the fact that contracting a mild form of a serious illness is an unrivalled asset to any student. Some might go so far as to describe it as ‘banter’.Picture the scene: you’re working the Park End lounge room (standard), despite carrying a potent and highly infectious disease that was *worth it* to pay off your overdraft/for that phenomenal time in Amsterdam/to buy your own fucking washing machine so you’ll never again return to find a layer of dust and washing powder all over your freshly washed garments. Not that I’m bitter.

Anyway, on approaching a ‘looker’, it’s your move. Previously you’d be stuck with such lead balloons as ‘I swear so many people have that dress!’ or ‘Did we crewdate once?’. However, with your new found asset you’ll never be short of a sob story about how you’re coping with your condition day by day, with highs and lows, etc etc; just substitute ‘highly infectious’ ‘for ‘impossible to catch’ and you’re good to go. Just don’t mention any of your other diseases that are ‘impossible to catch’.

Whilst there are many who won’t hesitate to dissuade you from medical testing, when I was asked by my editor, ‘How against sperm donation are you?’ I thought the answer was pretty clear cut – ‘Where do I sign up?’ However, a quick internet search stopped me in my tracks, as I read about the legislation that gives any donor-born child the power to legally track down and contact their biological father after a certain age. The thought of previously unknown offspring unexpectedly bursting into my life already keeps me up at night, so to increase the chance of this happening to ‘actually-pretty-damn-likely’ for a quick cash-flow fix seemed madness. A peek on a leading clinic’s website revealed the worst; one satisfied donor enthused, ‘I try to donate sperm once a week, but work commitments mean that it’s not always possible. I continue to keep in close contact with the clinic, and I find the payment helps cover my weekly train fare to London.’ Train fare to London?? What do they take us for, a bunch of tossers?

With term fully underway, it’s quickly become clear that despite my best efforts, my outgoings are outstripping my incomings at a rate of knots, and so this week I’m bringing you a serious guide to my favourite money saving method, based on a philosophy I like to call: ‘Washing – it’s optional, right?’

With term fully underway, it’s quickly become clear that despite my best efforts, my outgoings are outstripping my incomings at a rate of knots. So this week I’m bringing you a serious guide to my favourite money saving method, based on a philosophy I like to call: ‘Washing – it’s optional, right?’

As anyone who lives in college can attest, washing machines and dryers are horrendously overpriced, and that’s assuming that they’re not broken. Having to wait over a week for them to be repaired, trekking to the laundry at 2am in an attempt to find a free machine, only to return an hour later to find someone’s already dumped your finished load on the dusty, washing-powder-streaked side starts to get a little old after a year or two. Well, it’s easier to avoid this whole debacle than you might think.

Bed sheets are, unless you’re regularly sharing your bed, a very personal aspect of one’s life, and as such I find that building up a solid relationship with them is essential. Now everyone knows a relationship can’t blossom overnight, so despite the protests of your friends and colleagues (and possibly even lovers), I urge you to at least try the ‘one-change term’ – bring two sets of sheets, and change them in 4th week – job done. If this seems a little extreme for you, with three sets of sheets (and who doesn’t have three sets of sheets lying around), the three-change-term is a little more work, but just as effective in avoiding those pesky machines.

If the topic of saving on washing ever pops up in conversation (and let’s face it, it’s a winner in the Park End lounge room), girls in particular seem to love telling guys that our underwear can be worn ‘inside-out, back-to-front, and inside-out-back-to-front’ – the 4-shot pants. Well let’s debunk this myth once and for all; underwear is cut a certain way – it’s the equivalent of saying, ‘Oh, you know how you can reduce the wear on the seat of your jeans? Put them on backwards every other day’ – try floating this the next time some weirdo starts chatting you up with money saving chat over a VK Orange and see how it goes down. Honestly, there’s enough going on down there that an ill-fitting, scratchy and uncomfortable (the buttons? And stitching? They’re on the outer side for a reason) pair would ruin anyone’s day.

People, and by people I mean girls, also go on about dry shampoo as if it gives you a previously unattainable level of attractiveness, solves your recurring pimple problem and does your tute sheets for you. I can assure you that, as it’s just glorified talcum powder in a bottle, with the added ‘benefit’ of coming in a variety of revolting fragrances, it’s about as pleasant as filling your hair with a fine chemical dust can ever be. Dont forget to factor in the added features that most of said dust won’t comb out, and will, if you sensibly opted for the fragrance-free version, make you smell like you work in a talc factory. This is not attractive to anyone.So while I’m all in favour of saving some dollar here and there on sheets, clothes (do t-shirts ever need washing?) and sports kit (both cost-effective and a legit tactic to ward off a closely marking opposition player), I’m certainly not going to extol the virtues of, say rubbing your face with sand to reduce oily-build up between showers, or chewing parsley between brushes to keep fresh and ready for action. Because that’s literally mental.

Unless you’re a member of the Bullingdon Club, go to Christ Church, or have managed to wrangle some extra pocket money out of your college’s bursary scheme, you will be well aware that life as a student is wrought with fiscal uncertainty. Sure, the student loan is a significant boost to the old savings account, but once you factor in croquet cuppers stash, nights out and a subscription to Good Houseke- sorry, GQ, there’s not really much left to be getting on with.

As someone with far less dignity and a much higher maintenance girlfriend than the average student, over the next eight weeks I’ll be trying a variety of money saving methods so you don’t have to. A new term, with fresh prospects, no exams (if you’re lucky enough to be in the second year), and some cracking weather means it would be a shame not to exploit the finer cultural, scenic and epicurean sides to our city. By which I mean, getting bladdered at every possible opportunity. 

The thing about university clubs is that there are lots of them. Too many, if I’m being honest with you – I can say for certain that no sleepless nights would be had on my part if (just picking at random from the OUSU website), ‘Oxford Uni Conservative Association’ was shut down. I don’t even know what Conservatives are – for a bit I was pretty sure it was something to do with an ugly extension that poor people use instead of a morning room, but then my granny kept banging on about Johnny Foreigner, who I presume is some kind of figure head to these people.

Anyway, whilst the majority of us would not be particularly peeved if Underwater Hockey practice was cancelled due to a spate of drownings, the outcome is that a great number of meetings are held all over Oxford with embarrassingly few attendees. Naturally, in an attempt to draw a crowd, many of these offer free wine. I think you can see where I’m going with this. In exchange for a brief/moderate/awkwardly long conversation with an art nut/keen green/proud biologist, you win at least a couple of glasses of Tierra’s finest, and in the best case scenario, even a couple of cheeky bottles of red in tow.

My editor has asked me to stress that this is a hypothetical situation, and that even in that hypothetical situation, they were gifted by the club president anyway. Probably. A quick search of ‘how to get drunk on the cheap’ online yielded some… interesting suggestions, but as a devotee to the piece I embarked on a night out as per its instructions. The results were a mixed bag: I can exclusively reveal that losing sleep (not napping during the day counts, right) and missing dinner (to be fair I forgot to book hall) gave me a dizzy and nauseous turn, rather than heightening my prelash buzz. Avoid.

The dubious doctrine of get your drinks over the counter sounded mental earlier in the day, but after a couple of tasty lagers I was more than game for a cheeky shot of Listerine. The minty freshness is only topped by a pretty savage afterburn, followed by more of that nausea from earlier. Avoid.

The pinnacle of the internet’s wisdom was simply learn the art of flirtation. If you have ever had a girl buy you a drink in Oxford, please write in so I can learn your secrets and pass them off as my own in a future article – ‘VK Orange? Classy choice. Mine’s a vodka Red Bull’ went down like a lead balloon. Baffling.

After last week’s partial success, a college ball is perhaps not the most obviously immoral environment to continue my run of form. I’m feeling thoroughly improper though, so it’s black tie or bust.

I’m here with a big group of friends, and my best friend among them. I’ve only told the guy next door about my challenge, but for everything else this girl is my number one confidant. Her enthusiasm is infectious. We are two people, lacking in any self-consciousness around each other, who value every aspect of the opposing personality. Talking of opposing personalities, I realise that stalker girl number one, perhaps inspired by the partial success of her fellow predator, has made it to the party.

She is rotund and unattractive, with a personality that is prone to gossiping and sensationalism. Totally wearing. She catches my eye, and I spin around, desperate to avoid contact, right into my best friend. Have you ever had one of those suggestive moments where a new direction becomes possible for the first time, and the tension is unbearable as you decide whether to take it or not? This is what we suffer as I turn into her and find our faces inches apart.

We rise up to meet it; freed from constraint amongst the inevitable decadence of ball-goers. She puts her hands on my shoulders, and gives me a risky, full-blooded kiss, open-mouthed, and I can taste the flame of the shot that she must have just taken. We keep kissing, without thought of friendship, pressing our faces together in the crowd, revelling in the moment without caring what happens next.

We break, and I stumble away towards the toilets. I see the ice queen is here too, an irritated onlooker at my new attachment; her scowl says, “I shouldn’t have made him work for it”. As I carry on, I notice stalker number one tracking my movements, but disorientated and eager to return I manage to lose her. Her inability to see over anyone’s shoulders has also aided my flight.

Finally free, I begin to piss against the bottom of an unused door, away from the crowds. Then, in mid-release, the door swings open and, horrifically, I spatter all over stalker girl, who, shrewdly judging my escape route, has managed to come at me from an unexpected angle. Not anticipating My unintentional counter-play is even more unexpected.

She shrieks and runs off the way she came. I finish up, feeling that I’ve somewhat redeemed myself for last week’s admitted lapse of judgment. The ball is winding down. Our friends head home soon after, leaving my best friend and me, caught between strangers and lovers, amongst the barren stalls and litter-strewn grass, heavy with potential and hot in the calm night. 

So last week, in one of my more confessional moments, I revealed details of the challenge to my friend next door. This has had unexpected consequences. I am now actively and tragically being pursued by two desperate sirens, who overheard our talk, as they attempt to shipwreck my sexual odyssey. Both are deadly vixens, but the first we shall discuss later. The second is inarguably beautiful, yet from what I’ve experienced her personality prevents anyone from getting even close. She’s distant, aloof, sarcastic, the hottest ice queen you could imagine. Now then, my red-blooded readers, I ask you to watch my back if you can – best pantomime voices at the ready for “she’s behind you”.

I’m playing a bit of mixed sport, which is tactically great from me. Sport is basically sex with more people involved, or so I hear, anyway. The game finishes and we’re all going to head back to college, but I’ve left some stuff in the changing rooms and head back in to retrieve it. Ice queen walks in and comes across to where I’m sitting on the benches. She straddles me, and gently puts her fingers on my face. The look in her eyes is teasing, contemptuous, but she gets away with it.

She puts her lips so close to mine that they brush together, but keeps her eyes fixed on me, before gently reaching up to close my eyes. She gives slow kisses; a flicker of tongue and the pleasure of lips breaking over each other. I’m helpless, and try to hold her haunches as she curls up on me but she knocks my hands away. She pulls my shirt off and kisses down my neck, raking her nails gently down my chest. She pulls me to my feet and walks away, only as far as the nearest shower where, with a heart-stopping grin, she turns the water on full.

She pushes the water into the folds of her body; her shorts rise up to meet the tops of her legs as her shirt sticks around her breasts and hips. She beckons me, almost imperceptibly, and I collapse. I walk to her and kiss her hard on the mouth, cling to her, explore her, and she responds in kind. She peels her sodden shirt over her head, and as she reaches behind her to unclasp her bra she falls against the shower wall.

Every moment is an anarchic; I press up against her, glorying in the rush as her breasts touch against my bare skin. We clash teeth, biting at each other with desire.Then the water stops. Then she pulls away, utterly nonchalant, and leaves me dripping in the shower as she re-dresses. I can find nothing to say; she speaks first, with one quick look of disdain, before leaving. “Well, you’re going to have to work for it”.

Don’t know what she’s on about, readers; I’ve already told you I’m not interested.