On the rare occasion that the sun comes out in York, the concrete concourse outside JB Morrell takes on the appearance of a rehab clinic, with pallid creatures stumbling out from the darkness to bask like little animals in the warming rays. Add in the plethora of campaign posters and flyers drawn up by those in-patients who cannot bare the thought of their fast approaching freedom, Daniel Whitmore’s trumpet performances from the parapets, and it really did look as though the patients were trying to take over the asylum. Alas there was no offer to my entry into the library in the form of medieval fanfare and thus these brass talents fell on deaf ears.
Talking of campus-in-the-sun reminds one of the recent Sun-on-campus debacle. For me, it’s a bit dark for a ‘liberal’ institution to contemplate getting rid of one the country’s biggest newspapers and thus, censoring student’s access to media. Now I can’t imagine that there’s a huge Sun readership on campus but if red tops like the Sun are banned – what could come next? All tabloids (in which case bye bye Vision)? Then perhaps right wing titles? It’s funny because the library hold some titles that would make a nun weep. I, for example, rented Spike Lee’s Jungle Fever (purely for dissertation research purposes you’ll understand) and I don’t think my relationship with my old housemate has ever been the same since. There are some things you cannot un-see and some things that one really should be alone for. This little DVD lies undisturbed, revelling in all its saucy glory, in JB Morrell – whilst the Sun, with its far less raunchy or controversial material (and witty headlines), is under attack. Truth be known, I think even if the Sun did stop page three, I think people would still look to get rid of it.
It’s taken me about a year to workout how to hashtag on my computer which is probably why I’ve never really got into Twitter. Until now. I didn’t want to – I mean anything that I’m bursting to share can usually be heard a few streets away (I blame stage school for my vocal projection problems), or is posted on Facebook (a catalogue of embarrassing incidents, which has temporarily been hijacked by Matt Kilcoyne’s campaigning). My phone, hosted by 3G – ‘the network built for the internet’, can barely manage text, let alone a second social media app. But whatever, as London Fashion Week approached, I decided to join the 21st century, envisioning myself at some fabulous show, avidly tweeting about tassels, which no doubt would be re-tweeted by the likes of Simon Chilvers and Alexandra Shulman. The reality was somewhat different. By the Sunday I could barely write, let alone tweet as breakfast was served in the form of Babycham and Jack Daniels – most of which went on my shoes rather than down my gullet (it’s not easy being surrounded by giants when you’re a lackluster 5’5). The other days I simply had nothing to report other than the fact that the subzero temperature had permanently frozen my nipples and that we had all developed an addiction to skinny popcorn (sounds dire but trust me, I’m sure there’s some sort of crack sprinkled on it). Unbelievably, these glimmers of #fashioninsideknowledge did win me two followers; sure, one of them has a tag line of ‘Couple A B C’s, bad bitch double D’s, poppin’ E, I don’t give a F, told you I’m a G’ – but beggars can’t be choosers. It’s nice to know he’s got such a good grip of the alphabet. My old housemate is an avid tweeter, primarily because he can’t keep his trap shut and loves to espouse on the virtues of Toryism and not being Welsh. He has arguments on Twitter with Polly Toynbee. He also refused to start following me until I wrote something ‘relevant’, and not fashion or Arsenal related. Yesterday I retweeted Patrick Wintour’s comment on the Pope’s resignation; today I have thirteen followers – clearly Matthew approves of my baby step into current events.