I think we can all agree that there is nothing – nothing – going on at University at the moment. Aside from the sport-orgy called Roses, which apparently some people take very seriously, and which I use as a method of guilt-free procrastinatory drinking and smoking, there is really nothing to do on this campus aside from smoke, work, and lament the slow hurtling demise of any kind of social existence we might have once possessed.
With this in mind, and the fact that I have absolutely nothing going on in my life, the column this edition presented somewhat of a quandary. Having been firmly warned off writing about the library ever again, and post-lecture (involving finger-pointing and cigarette-waving) about writing about my friends’ lives, my options were thin.
Then, brainwave: Kate Middleton. When in doubt, write about Kate; our Kate, your Kate, that Kate who the national newspapers seem to stick on the front page every time there’s a crisis in the newsroom and neither Ed or Dave have made a particularly idiotic cock-up the previous day. It’s an off-day for the Telegraph if they can’t get her in somewhere.
Like mayonnaise on a sandwich, she goes with everything and nothing: blander than a Farrow&Ball eggshell off-white wall paint drying on an overcast day. (Disclaimer: all comments made about Kate are made in the spirit of humour, and the columnist would like to express her profound admiration and regard for Kate, and please god don’t let the internet trolls get me.)
Kate’s face appears to have bobbed along with me during my entire university career. As Kate has progressed, so too have I. First year it was the Royal Wedding, which offered a suitably inebriated opportunity to end a year where I have literally no idea how I passed any exams. Second year presented less in the way of spectacle, but a lot more in the way of exhibitionism. ‘That’ boob story gave us all a nice opening to bash the French/foreigners generally (a popular British pastime, championed usually by Mr Boris Johnson if Nigel Farange is too busy) and ably reflected the second-year tendency to perhaps over-compensate in regards to a lack of highly sought flesh-exposing accoutrements.
And now, apparently, and I only learnt this very recently after extensively scouring the news for that tiny small mention, Kate’s pregnant. In the space of three years she’s gone from the brunette version of Barbie, to the barely there bronzing bride, to a baby-making test-tube. Hardly ideal for Miss Middleton, but great news for anyone who likes a party and an opportunity to exercise their latent xenophobia.
Kate’s pregnancy is cause for national jubilation and inebriation (probably in alternative order) and we should really all stand up and thank Kate for taking one for team GB – not drinking, smoking, enjoying herself, etc. – for nine months in order that the entire nation can obsess, and then celebrate, over the incoming squishy blob of Royal material. Amen. Problem is, Kate’s baby (and it’s definitely hers, Wills is hardly getting a peek-a-boo in) is shadowing me with an odd sense of nervous apprehension, which is not helped by the fact that my weekly (alright, bi-weekly) trip to YourShop is characterised by the growing fear that in buying cigarettes I will have to come nose to bump with Miss Kate’s increasingly rotund tummy.
The imminent arrival of Royal blubber coincides horribly with my own expulsion into the world. According to Google – font of all wisdom and knowledge – speculation currently places the babe’s arrival sometime around mid-July. That’s when I graduate and am faced with the utterly horrendous spectacle of ‘real’ life and decisions. Being at university is like being inside a giant, warm, utterly safe bubble. While the future monarch continues to avoid the certainties of life – shouldn’t be too hard: their grandfather appears entirely divorced from reality – everything will be fine. So, although university at the moment might appear to be nothing so much as like swimming through a warm sea of apathy and occasionally mild stress, we should all just embrace it while it lasts and be thankful that inside this womb we can, at the very least, continue to smoke ourselves to peaceful oblivion.