The Acquaintance with Poppy Babcock

Welcome back to what, for some more than others, is the term of change. I may be the only one who’s noticed it, but there is definitely something in the air. Something is different; and as I walked back from the library one night this week, I felt a chill. Insert ‘weather-up-north’ joke here, and then perhaps devote some time to musing on what it really is that’s changed. Yes, some of us are soon to be leaving York for greener and dryer pastures of graduate (un)employment, but I don’t think that’s it. In my absence from our lovely little campus, everyone, including some very unlikely candidates, seems to have “gone political”.

Despite being pretty far from the hub, York’s buzzing with political savvy: I’ve met people in the last few days who could single-handedly save our economy. Political awareness and knowledge don’t seem to be amongst the necessary criteria for participating in the many heated debates I’ve been privy to since my return: a loud voice, a tendency to naturally turn a little rouge in the face and neck region and a small, small inkling of what happened to all that gold seem to be pretty key. At least to my ignorant eye and ear. Anyway, it’s all been very illuminating, and as my mind wandered during “Who Will Be Better For Our Economy For Dummies: Part IV”, I considered what a televised debate of a few of our finer representatives might look like. Obviously it would follow Gok Wan’s ‘How To Look Good Naked’, and close with a close up of someone in impassioned chats at Courtyard, eating chips and mayo.

There’s a note of annoyance in my tone, I know, but I really am fed up with invitations to “National Not Voting Conservative Day”, or “I’ve always voted Labour and I’m not stopping now”. Can’t we go back to the time when one’s voting status was personal, and private, property? Perhaps we’re being too frank about the wrong things. Given the end result of a couple of discussions I have become embroiled in, I honestly think asking a dinner guest how many sexual partners she’d had would provoke less debate: and possibly in some cases, prove more informative. The silver lining of the rather tedious current climate is the occasional very surprising, and often entertaining, converts to the political bandwagon.

Having a mosey around town on a well-earned break from the books I ran into an old acquaintance who, after the formalities of “Did you get stuck anywhere?”, launched into what I can only hope was an ironic insight into the results of the first live debate- “It’s a shame, because Gordon Brown is just sooo ugly… and Nick Clegg’s tie was SO lovely! A hung parliament would just be awful, wouldn’t it?” Scary, scary stuff. Take me (or, rather, them) back to the good old dark days of ignorance, when I could point at people and guess which ones would fail to know the name, or worse, gender, of our current PM. This brigade with semi-enlightened Facebook statuses has got me wondering which way’s up.

No one needed to be told which way up to look at the pictures of this year’s YUSnow trip; although I wouldn’t have objected to captions and the odd anatomical label. Red, ruddy cheeks frolicking in the snow: nothing could possibly be more delightful for the non-student holiday goers as they made their way up the mountain. Some of the better photographic evidence is really good ad material, or at least I think so: bevy of beautiful boys urinating on the slopes – “Should’ve gone to Specsavers?” Or maybe a Bailey’s ad, with “drink responsibly” in tiny print at the bottom.

At the bottom of a bottom. I’ve never been on a YUSnow social, so this is a question to you, the masses – do they hold preparation training sessions? Like stand-naked-in-the-fridge-before-pre-lash-to-get-ready-for-frostbite-in-dangly-bits sessions? Well however they do it, it’s really very impressive. Can’t be a fantastic pulling technique though, because no matter how warm-blooded, thick-skinned or weather-resistant you may be, there’s always going to be a retreat on one front. The most important front, boys, where if you’re lucky you can mount an attack. I have to say, flicking through pictures and seeing friends and past lovers glistening on the slopes was vaguely reassuring: at least some things never change. Aside from getting a little rounder round the edges.

Considerably more exciting is Roses. Undoubtedly the hijinks will be palpably delicious. I learned upon my return from the break that the rugby team has been perfecting itself into an object for total subjugation of the lower classes; on meeting anyone from a “lower university, you know, like the ‘metty’ ones” on their recent tour, the team would offer some pithy statement on the wealth of York students and quite literallyburn real paper money in front of their pauper-peers. I am uncertain of whether this is actually amusing or not. Daddy didn’t climb to the top of the slippery corporate ladder just for their inebriated spawn to destroy it all for the sake of dispiriting our lessers.

In other news, my new claim to fame is that I very recently had a real and genuine “Gap Yah” moment. Someone really said “on my Gap Yah”. The ‘e’ and the ‘r’ were conspicuously absent, and I was so distracted by hearing it in the flesh that I unfortunately missed the ensuing, side-splitting anecdote. I think I tuned back in to the conversation just in time to hear “harem pants”. But I could be wrong.

One comment

  1. I hate poor people…

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