Joey Essex coming to York was to be the highlight of my TV loving 2k11. And the chance to play some sort of game with him on stage? The excitement! I could show off all my useless knowledge about the Essex clan in a nice quiz, I innocently believed. But no. Instead, a lap dance competition performed on Joey’s friend (because the Reem-meister had no idea about it and refused…what a gentleman) made me want to melt away amongst the swarm of girls all desperate to whip their tops off for five minutes of quality time with Joey.
The five American leaders – a President plus Standards, Social, Philanthropy and Entertainment Chairs – of Channel Four’s Sorority Girls would have been horrified at the whole competition, because amongst their favourite terms and acronyms is ‘inappropriate’. And they take being appropriate to the extreme.
If I were a pledge (a wannabe sorority Sister who goes through hazing while decked out in pearls, pink monogrammed pyjamas and cashmere knits), I’d like to think that the five leaders would initially find me to be the epitome of appropriate. In clubs, I only ever have one drink in my hand: you really can’t do the Smack That or Saturday Night Fever disco dances to full effect if you’ve got two things to hold.
I don’t wear above-the-knee skirts without tights: the North is unbearably cold for eight months of the year and I’m not a fan of pneumonia. I don’t wear false eyelashes: my one experience with them left me looking like an even more dishevelled version of Katie Price. All examples of totally ‘appropriate’, albeit middle-aged, logic.
But upon discovering my philanthropy efforts, I sense things would start to go downhill. Would helping to organise a Calendar Girls style calendar be considered an inappropriate fundraiser? Having more than one bit of flesh on show at a time constitutes being Sorostitute according to Dominique, the Standards Chair. My role in co-ordinating the pages must have made me a SoroPimp. I’m dubious the Sisters would approve.
It gets worse. Any aspiring Sisters who have been promised that a night out won’t be ‘a late one’, should never make well-intentioned plans for the next day that involve going to the British Library to do dissertation research. By 2.30am, if you’ve already stopped drinking, it’s time to face that won’t be getting home much before five. Being awake past midnight? In-app-rop-riate.
Last week, I had resigned myself to this fact. Having been up since 7.30 the previous morning and with T-minus 7 hours until I had to be in the company of a pile of musty books, my desperation led me to perhaps the cardinal sin of appropriateness. Dare I relive my PLC (Poor Life Choice)…in my plight towards academia, I sprawled across the corner of a table for a power nap in the restaurant-cum-bar.
Trying to snooze while Rolling in the Deep and Fight For This Love are blasting out of the stereo system proved difficult. Even harder when you’re awakened by the stench of breaded brie. Not to mention the establishment’s bouncer peering down to ask if you’re ‘alright’. A bleary-eyed murmur of “I’m just so sleepy” definitely doesn’t give the best first impression. So inappropriate.
Evidently, however hard I try I’m clearly never going to be appropriate enough. They’ve all got double standards anyway. Hannah the Entertainment Chair is eternally caked in a foundation far from Natural Beige, and I definitely spied Philanthropy Chair Arianna in a body-con pencil skirt with a slit right up the thigh. What a Slooter Cahooter.
And aside from the First Battalion of the Yorkshire Regiment, what kind of a club had a ferret as a mascot? Sistas, you’ve been weighed and measured and have been found lacking. Your definition of inappropriate is ridiculous. You’re just SNTITB. So Not Thinking Inside the Box.