Anthem from a Doomed Youth

What’ve I been up to this week, huh? I’m glad you asked, imaginary construct! I tried reading Jane Austen, which is the literary equivalent of reading a 5000-word essay on the history of rice sketched out in steadily drying paint.

I went to a job interview where I was the only guy who turned up, and briefly considered applying for diversity grounds while wearing my whitest and male-est face. Having finished that up, I then walked down the street in my suit and had 30 whole seconds of feeling like an adult, before walking past the comics store and seriously considering buying Captain America’s shield. So that was fun while it lasted.

I went to see Sweet Charity from CHMS, which was great – it was set in the 1930s, and like the actual 1930s, it was all black and white and sparkly and glamorous, but then it ended with massive depression. And, oh yeah, Valentine’s Day happened.

At a job interview I briefly considered applying for diversity grounds while wearing my whitest and male-est face

Now, my physical appearance falls somewhere between ‘that bit in Animal Farm where the pigs walk on their back legs’ and ‘Jabba the Hutt from an illegal Chinese version of Star Wars made on a budget of about 20p’ (I’m going to stop there – I like to keep at least a little bit of distance between my witty column and my suicide note). So you won’t be too shocked to hear that most of my Valentine’s Days – including this one – have abided by a strict isolationist policy.

Maybe this’ll change someday: even Shrek got married at the end of the movie, and all that. Hell, there’s Donald Trump erotic fiction out there, and he’s pretty much the villain from a movie where the hero is a talking dog. But at the time of writing, I’m not quite sure what to do when it hits. I briefly tried Tinder – that hybrid of Twitter and natural selection – but it ended up the equivalent of trying to play poker with a two, three jokers and a shiny Blue-Eyes White Dragon. Rom-coms are out: they’re ready-salted plasters for an open wound. Existential horror with Hugh Grant.

So I might spend the 14th watching Deadpool. Partly because Deadpool’s great, and partly because Ryan Reynolds can’t tell me to go away. He has to stay on the screen. Near my face.

Speaking of unhealthy attachments to celebrities, this was also the week David Tennant came to campus so that he could get some filming done! When the news hit, he was immediately stalked by a thousand fangirls and Doctor Who nerds, thus proving that David Tennant’s superpower to attract legions of devoted followers in Jessica Jones is actually a scaled-down version of what he can do in real life.

I don’t know what he did after filming was done, although rumour has it he was last seen heading to that petrol station with the Daleks on it, rolling up his sleeves and declaring he was going to “sort that shit out”. If you want to ask him, I hear he’s next coming back two months ago.

Something else I’ve also been doing is recruiting people for The Times Graduate Survey, since as a student interested in journalism I decided to get a head-start on selling my soul to Rupert Murdoch. Putting the “social” in “social pariah”, I’ve been sat in the library for hours on end, trying to see how much data I can get in exchange for a free cupcake. Turns out it’s less than you think. Yeah, I know you had low expectations. It’s less than you think.

And then Lent hit. An extended period of giving up. Which, honestly, might as well be the epitaph to my whole degree, so I might as well end it there.

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