Every year, one of the departing NOUSE columnists takes it upon themselves to offer advice to the younger years. I’d like to nonchalantly comment that this year’s responsibility fell to me because Tom was too cool and Jones writes about food but, in truth, I’ve been jumping up and down for the role since the great HJF departed. I too have wisdom, I thought, while stroking my non-existent beard and tapping my imaginary pipe. I will teach these young grasshoppers if only they are willing to learn. Here I am Lord, I have heard them calling in the night. Etc.

And so, these are the words of wisdom, taken from a panel of the sage and shrewd during Naomi’s 21st. The first up, as originally quoted by Hugh Laurie: a party girl is fun until she pukes on your shoes. University, what with staying up all night and the possibility of living of takeaway is intoxicating but notice when it’s time to grow up. If your friends start forgoing nights out to do their seminar reading and randomers mention their essay plans in Revs, its time to shape up or ship out. You’re here to get a 2.1 and a job, at least in the long run. Forget that at your peril. The real-world boat may have left the harbour.

There are no tears in degrees. Maybe in 6th form it was cool to rant and rave about how little work you’ve done and that you’re “sooooo screwed” while secretly beavering away but no more. Behave like that here while ‘luckily’ managing to get firsts and people will talk. And it won’t be pleasant or to your face. Working hard and doing well is cool. Buy a coffee flask; it’s likely to be your only friend pre-9:15 and post Ziggys.

Get to know the bouncers. And by that I mean the bouncers, the cleaners, and the admin staff. Perhaps throw in Doorsafe as well. These are the people with real power. YUSU are not.

Dump your high school boyfriend. Two years on, wisdom is infinitely better and sounder and your choice may not seem quite so rosy. Will you be glad you listened to him lament his disgraceful performance in the college hockey cup if you break up at Big D in Third year? Probably not. Being in a relationship involves sacrifice: societies, friends and degree will suffer. Maybe it’s worth it, maybe it’s not but avoid regret by thinking about it now.

Getting older is inevitable so enjoy your youth while you’ve got it. The mistakes you make today are excellent dinner party stories tomorrow. Playing it safe is dull but stay on the right side of the law. Joining the sacred club by breaking into a certain private gym for a midnight dip is sexy, willful destruction of property is not.

The Courtyard is fun but only occasionally. It’s the social hub; enjoy it, make use of it and accept it. However, in the words of ex-poli ed Kate, order a coffee to go and have somewhere else to be. There’s nothing worse than a socialite, especially when all they add to campus is carbon dioxide and the occasional STD. Have a purpose.

Societies matter, but not that much. James, the BF of my BFF, informed me that I shouldn’t bother writing anything but merely sign-off with ‘CAMILLA couldn’t-let-it-go JENKINS.’ According to him, that explains my attitude in a nutshell. Perhaps. Push yourself, be a part of something that sparks your interest but remember it’s not the be all and end all, despite what YUSU or your black card tells you. Campus has a three year memory span, at best, which is both sad and oddly comforting. People have done better and worse jobs than you will do. And no one remembers either.

Eighteen years later, post-Guliani clear up, post- 9/11, and post-credit crunch, the city is a different place. Before, tourists were warned to keep their belongings to themselves and avoid most areas below 59th street after dark. Now, the majority of areas are safer than London and flashing your cash is positively encouraged. At least on the Upper East Side.

Gentrification (the movement of white, middle class families into areas that previously housed bohemian artists and musicians; read drug dealers and prostitutes) has become the buzz word for lamenting indie kids everywhere. They kille­­d the music, man. But is it really a bad thing?

Culture is impressive n’all but it comes at a price. When we were younger, scoring the next joint or having a free ticket to the edgiest party is thought to be paramount. However, there comes a point where a safe post-drinks trip between tube and front door seems more important. Perhaps it’s possible to have both but, much like organised and scheduled fun, it never quite measures up to the experiences you have when you really shouldn’t.

There’s one aspect of New York that hasn’t changed and that’s the intensity which is both stifling and incredibly stimulating. Its not only the city where you can do anything but, more temptingly, be anyone. Walking into a downtown bar the other night, we came across a group of sailors (Fleet week – see Sex and the City) who claimed to be part-time Navy Seals, naturally. After a few margaritas, Phil from Louisianna admitted that him and his buddies used that line to determine the IQ of their various conquests. Despite being chauvanistic and slightly immoral, it’s surprising how many people believed them.

Gentrification has become the buzzword of the lamenting indie kids. They killed the music, man

What fun! I hear you (and the Famous Five) shout. What jolly japes! It can go to your head, though. Considering I consider myself quite straight less, I was surpised when mere days ago, I found myself being called India, gyrating with some Americans on a bar called McFaddens. I didn’t intend to get that drunk, you see; I couldn’t believe that a $1 beer called Nattie Lite could possibly get you drunk.

We’d all like to believe that the reasons we behave the way we do is because of some fixed inner compass. Something that will guide us. No matter what the situation. However, if lads on tour teach us anything its that anonymity can be an intoxicating drug. And if its not our morals that keep us on the straight and narrow then its the fact that we might get caught. And if that’s true, then who knows what we might do given the right combination.

Any city almost entirely consisting of people coming from somewhere hoping to make it has a certain status about it. We may worry about not fitting in but these people gave up on that ideal a long ago. Think of the woman we saw time ago. On the subway the other day. Wearing a t-shirt that said “Seriously man, don’t fuck my Mom” (but without the grammar), she was willing to tell everyone and anyone that she was out of work and looking for business. That girl was almost definitely not a cheerleader in high school. And neither were most of us.

So, what’s the lesson from a city like this? Well, in the words of Elle Woods and optimists everywhere, be yourself. Not necessarily for any more fundamental reason than the fact that you’ll never be convincing if you pretend you’re anything else. And, at the end of the day, that’s all you’ve got.

And so, as only two really interesting things have happened to me in a while, I shall discuss those. Well, actually three interesting things have happened. Today, I saw someone READ THE NEWS on his ipad. Do you know how rare that is? Everyone says they’re going to get an ipad to read the FT everyday but it never happens. Once you’re on the Tube, you’re too grumpy to care about the Greek economy. You want vengeance. You want entertainment. Family Guy it is.

This chap, in his crisp navy-blue suit with posh boy haircut and shined shoes looks so swish and competent. I’d trust him with my stocks (if I had any). I want an ipad! Oh wait, I have one. I was overcome with lust last October and, as my bank account bulged with post-tax internship salary, I gave in. Oh Apple, you took advantage of me. And like the iTunes slut I had become, my eyes said no but my mouth said “I’ll have the 70gb one with 3G and throw in a screen cover.”

My father, reminiscing over his first purchase funded by his own money, was in Seventh-Banker-Father Heaven. I was watching the Apple ads to figure out what to do with it. I ended up buying a marc by marc jacobs ipad cover to bribe myself to use it. It didn’t work. Ipads and posh covers are a bit like the English-and-Philosophy degree of the technology world. Individually, they may have a point but together they’re just an awful lot of money for no direction.

But the two cool things. And these are really cool, not passe like going to Boujis or cool but a bit grim like Glastonbury. Which, considering I had my cool peak at the age of 12 – we were mean girls with the cool boys – means that both were more luck than intention. I have been to Heston Blumenthal’s new restaurant in the Mandarin Oriental AND The Box in Soho. Heston’s (it may have an official name but apparently it’s infra dig to use it), was delicious without the scary-scary-jump-out-at-you possibility of the Fat Duck. I had the chicken liver parfait with frois gras followed by the wing rib angus steak and a pineapple bunt cake with a pineapple that had been rotisseried for 4 hours straight.

Whilst the restaurant is very grand n’ cool n’ all, the real pleasure comes from the child-like delight of never knowing entirely what’s going to end up on your plate. My chicken liver arrived looking and feeling exactly like an orange; it was the grossest and most amazing thing I’ve ever eaten.

Interestingly enough, The Box has a similar appeal. This isn’t just Public with nipple tassels, this is full on sleeze. You don’t pay entrance and no cameras are allowed; it’s a licensed strip club. We’ve all heard the rumors; certain staff members give ‘lessons’, a full-on orgy was encourage on stage, and the club managers feed performers class-A drugs to get them in the mood.

The darkened room, close quarters and encouraging staff cultivate an environment where anything could happen and you feel vaguely disappointed when it doesn’t. Dancers, wearing little more than spandex knickers, perform a routine more intimate and provocative than most of the relationship-sex in York; Alice (as in Wonderland) isn’t just topless and kissing girls, she’s being taken to the highest peaks of pleasure by at least four others writhing over, around and possibly in her. Once the club closes, you stumble into the darkness of Soho drunk, a little disorientated, and oddly unsatiated. Of course you’d never want to behave like those girls, not in public. Or would you?

This is just the beginning. With deadline season rapidly a-coming, campus’ aggregate stress levels are becoming palatable. York has engaged in their version of battening down the hatches; additional counsellors have been employed and Lucozade is back on offer at YourShop. Nightline is on high alert.

The Reading Room is pretty much jam-packed from 10:00am onwards. People start employing what I like to call the German sun lounger technique; turning up pre-9:15 to dump all non-essential, non-valuable stuff at a spot and don’t return until after lunch. Effective? Sure. Ethical? Not at all.

We all accept that a certain amount of crazy goes on during exam season. It’s not unusual to see the odd girl sobbing into her boyfriend’s arms (“I just tried so hard. I caaaaaan’t doooo it”) or the slacker from your philosophy seminar wandering round, begging someone, anyone to explain how to access the VLE.

Whilst the stress gets to all of us, the guy subtly swigging from a can of Strongbow in the Economics section was possibly taking it a bit far. Drink is never the way my friend. Go to the Courtyard, for God’s sake. Or perhaps an AA meeting?

There comes a point at which it’s probably more effective to leave the comforting womb of J.B. Morrell and have a couple hours to yourselves. An NHS website, stress relieving section, informs me that a long walk is very soothing or perhaps a nice bath?

Which brings me to my second point about library behavior. What was the girl who I saw practically taking a bath in the loos the other week thinking? Washing your face is understandable and your hands admirable, but I’m not sure anyone needs to see you half-naked and dripping when they just want to fill up their water bottle. Take up membership at the University gym if you’re that desperate for a shower. I hear the Alcuin freshers are friendly as well.

Oh but it gets so much worse. People who take phone calls in the library drive me bonkers. You may be whispering but we can all hear you. Melissa’s love life and did she do that thing she does with her leg does not interest me or anyone else. Go outside.

This is the thing about the library. You’re there to work as is everyone else. If you’re not then bugger off and go and have some fun where more normal noise levels are acceptable. Pretending to work but really flitting around concreting your social circle is pointless for you and disruptive for everyone else.

Our library may be moving into the 21st century but the computer resources are not. These desktops are a scarce and in demand resource. Treat them with respect. Share. Don’t be the guy you uses them to watch the Six Nations. Or Seven Nations. Or whatever Roz says its called. No one likes that guy. All the girls think he’s kind of a douche.

I hate to go all Emily Post on your ass but I do it with the best intentions. The closer we get to the Summer Term, the more highly strung the Third Years get. You young ‘uns should be aware because we could snap at any second. This etiquette guide is more of a public service announcement, really.

Besides, all those not subdued with the first point can rest assured that there will come a time, soon, when someone discovers me, on the phone, hogging a computer by repeatedly watching Seaworld YouTube videos in an attempt to regain the will to live. They’ll brandish this article at me angrily. I’ll get my comeuppance. Just you wait and see.

Those close to me will recall the blue hand incident of 2009. To paraphrase, I disrupted a two hour seminar, caused chaos in The Courtyard and was almost carted off in an ambulance after my hand turned blue. What did it look like? Well, a blue hand. NHS Direct helpfully informed me it was likely that I was having a ‘serious cardiac incident’ and should go to A&E immediately.

Oh but NOUSE blood runs deep in my veins: this was a production week. Never one to subvert protocol, I informed then Editor, Charlotte Hogarth-Jones, who mentioned it was probably the dye on my new jeans. Imagine explaining that to the overzealous nurse on the phone keen on evacuation. I’m not dying, madam, just a bit dim.
Despite this being a central part of the hilarious (and mocking) 21st speech given by my best friend, I knew that one day my time would come. And it did.

After a particularly arduous week, my housemates and I retired to bed only to be woken in the middle of the night by an odd sounding alarm. Detective specs on, we investigated the causes, namely carbon monoxide.

What to do? Open the windows and start calling people. Sinclair’s emergency told us to go back to bed. The non-urgent Police advised us to contact the fire brigade. The fire brigade dispatched two fire engines, and an ambulance despite being repeatedly told that THIS WAS NOT AN EMERGENCY. Try explaining that to the neighbours.

My personal favorite, the British Gas man, explained it was probably nothing but he was going to turn off our gas anyway. After a brief debate involving poisoning vs. hair washing the next day, we agreed. We didn’t have to defend ourselves to him, he commented, but two fire engines really were a bit much. Crisis averted, we retired to bed feeling extraordinarily sheepish.

The next morning, a boiler technician was dispatched. He informed us the gap around the gas flume likely caused carbon monoxide to be blown back through the hole and into our bathroom, setting off the alarm.

Our persistence, possibly contrary to the firemen’s opinion, was not due to female hysteria. My mother’s friend died of carbon monoxide poisoning on a year abroad in Germany. The only reason my mother survived was because of a cracked window in her room.

And so, the moral of the story, boys and girls, is to always be vigilant about alarms. It sounds obvious but it’s much easier to go back to bed and hope for the best rather than get down and dirty with the professionals (ooh ah).

Carbon monoxide is colourless, scentless and impossible to detect without special equipment. It causes you to float away in your sleep making all that work you did for your A-levels, modules and societies completely wasted.

More worryingly, at least a handful of those I told about the story don’t have carbon monoxide detectors in their houses. Some don’t have fire alarms. Landlords are bound by law to provide these and it’s worth investigating immediately. If you suspect something is wrong, call people until you’re confident it’s resolved. It just might save your life.

As you might have guessed, this was a dream after a marathon session of ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ with a few friends.We laughed, we cried, we desperately wanted to be as hard core as Christina, as endearingly fragile as Meredith and as bright and shiny as Izzy.We too could be the chosen few, the ones whose profession was so intense it was perfectly acceptable to have sex with each and every one of, well, everyone just to relieve the pressure. ‘Cause we save lives.

It’s not all fun and games though. Researchers from Dalhousie University in Nova Scotia think they could play a valuable part in educating the public. They screened four shows, discovering that of the 59 seizures that occurred, 46% of them showed bad medical practice like inserting something into the patient’s mouth or attempting to stop involuntary movement. First aid practices were appropriate in only 29% of cases studied. According to researcher Andrew Moeller, epileptics should lobby the industry to convince them to “adhere to guidelines” for management of seizures.

I’m all for after school specials but is Hugh Laurie really the person we want administering first aid lessons? Also, how seriously are people taking what they see on the small screen? Despite my dream self ’s evidence to the contrary, I doubt most people consider a couple hours of ‘E.R.’ a day enough training to replace a medical degree. Mostly because we’d probably get sued. If we’re not watching these shows for the educative properties, why is there such a fascination with medical dramas? Or, more to the point, why do 80% of medical and nursing students watch these shows?

The Journal of Medical Ethics published an article on this very issue. They analysed seasons 2 of ‘House’ and ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ on the grounds of investigating the amount of inappropriate consent discussions between patients and physicians. I used a similar justification for watching most of season six the week before my exams. Of the 29 total incidents, 57% were deemed “inadequate … marked by hurried and one-sided discussions, refusal by physicians to answer questions” and “even an entire lack of informed consent for risky procedures”, according to the authors. Not very Hippocratic Oath at all.

Not all is lost for those who revise via an episode of ‘House’. Marie Nolan, Ph.D, says they encourage students to question their own views on moral medical issues ranging from “informed consent to organ-transplant eligibility to human experimentation”. Reassuring for someone with a bioethics essay due in a week.

The point is less that these shows teach us how to defibrillate or that it’s almost certainly never lupus but they force to question our own views. Although most of us will never become doctors, we will are all mortal so might as well know where we stand on DNRs and advanced directives.

Failing that, they also provide escapism in the form of light entertainment; it seems faintly reassuring that one day we may work in a place where it’s considered acceptable to escape to an on-call room (or closet or air vent) for a quickie when things get tough.

The pardoning doesn’t take place for any particular reason, you see. Nor has the turkey committed any horrendous federal crime which must be dealt with in the Supreme Court. No, this is just one of the many aspects surrounding the fourth Thursday in November (as decided by the U.S. Senate) which makes this day better than all others.

The ways in which Thanksgiving is celebrated have changed throughout the years. After our flighty ancestors searching for religious freedom foolishly arrived too late to plant any crops, the Indians (Native Americans to you, me and ACLU) generously donated enough food to last the winter and so saved the lot of them.

The following year, General Bradford declared it a day of celebration. However, the pilgrims were not known for their throw-downs and it initially revolved around feasting, fasting and giving thanks to God.

However, the Americans are an ambitious bunch and not ones to rest on their laurels, especially if food is involved. They have since transformed this into a celebration of what is known as the Big Three – God, guns and football, *insert Southern accent here*.

I love Thankgiving; it’s the only time in L.A. where you see real breasts on birds

Imagine my surprise when, as a nice British girl, I was asked to a friend’s house in deepest, darkest Maryland and invited to look at the gentlemen’s gun collection. Which he keeps in his ‘Liberty Chest’. Keen to advance my knowledge of semi-automatics beyond the AK-47 (which, according to a Marine friend of mine isn’t a very good gun), I accepted.

A few minutes later, I was standing in his pitch black cinema room, wearing night vision goggles and holding a pretty serious killing machine. What was I thankful for at this point? The fact that it was unloaded.

I actually shot one of the guns, too. With a silencer. ‘Cause I am that bad ass. A story for another time, I feel.

Who doesn’t want to celebrate a day where the obligations to see extended family members are minimal and there is absolutely no reason to buy gifts? Decant a tin of cranberry sauce into tupperware and no one can accuse you of not doing your share. Post-meal naps are essential, as is mocking the idiots in the Macy’s Day parade who let go of the giant inflatable characters and have to run along the streets of New York attempting to catch them.

Perhaps my favorite aspect of the whole shebang is when everyone, slightly tipsy – fine, drunk – goes around the table and says what they are thankful for. The Americans lap this stuff up, the British are embarrassed, and my French uncle generally refuses to participate. It’s not his fault: as a lawyer, he is right not to admit anything personal in such a public forum.

The weather outside is still grim, essay deadlines are still looming and it’s entirely likely your email account is currently filling up with several things you really don’t want to deal with. However, for that night, your Blackberry’s upstairs and the people you love are safe, in one room, with you. And that is something to be thankful for, no matter your nationality.

So this Thursday, gather a group of people you don’t hate and celebrate the fact you’re in this together. You don’t need turkey and, considering the state of some kitchens, Domino’s pizza may be preferable. Either way, be generous with the booze and enjoy yourself.

It’s a long stretch until the end of term, my friends, and this may be your last chance.

John Bercow was elected Speaker in June of last year after the acrimonious resignation of Michael Martin over the expenses scandal. His election was not without controversy, as he received very little support from the members of his own former Party, the Conservatives and he has barely been out of the news since. Just within the last few weeks, he has hit the headlines for a variety of reasons: from the controversial decision to postpone the Oldham by-election to allow the disgraced former Labour MP Phil Woolas to mount a legal challenge, to an expenses scandal of his very own, over questionable use of private transport. He could perhaps be excused for wanting to avoid the media.

We catch a glimpse of him in the Berrick Saul building, but he is whisked away to the incongruously named ‘Tree House.’ We follow.

So far, not a good start. However, when we do finally get to meet him, he is welcoming and it is clear that he genuinely wants to talk to us, seeming interested in both of our university courses and respective plans for post-York life.

We are unnerved. His jokes about his height and enthusiasm for sandwiches are not congruent with the media’s impression of him as a politician gone rogue. He’s clearly impressive but will he give us what we need?

Posters published by The Drum magazine after Michael Martin’s resignation

We start off with a fairly standard opener: what first interested him in politics? “I was 15 in the winter of discontent in 1978/9. I thought it was a shocking state of affairs that public services weren’t operating, and a mess was being made of it by the government. I went to school in Margaret Thatcher’s constituency and I went to hear her in her 1979 election campaign and I was inspired by her speech.” He proceeds to do an impression of Thatcher – which sounds rather like a subsequent impression of Tony Benn made in his speech later.

But it would be rare these days for someone of a similar age to join a political party. With membership numbers and voting percentages at an all-time low, it is thought that our generation is the most politically apathetic yet.

“I don’t agree with that at all, and I would make a very sharp distinction between apathy and disengagement. Being disconnected from politics is not the same as having no interest. I think they’re critical for the political process: they have strong views, clear ideas and would like to make a difference.”

Perhaps political parties can be blamed for this disillusionment. “The political parties have got to find a way to reach out to young voters. All of them need to re-work the old model – doing things in exactly the same way as they’ve done for years won’t work.”

The role of the Speaker has always been a secretive one – until now. A unique job in British politics, it is their responsibility to chair debates in the Commons, determining which members may speak and maintaining order. The Speaker is expected to give up all previous party affiliations after accepting the job. It used to be all pomp and circumstance, but as the first Speaker to abandon the traditional robes, he is firm in his belief that the nature of British politics is changing and needed to do so.

During his speech he gives after our interview, he frequently mentions what he calls “the three Rs: to renew, reform and reconnect”. We get the impression that he is painfully aware of the intense damage caused to Parliament’s reputation after the expenses scandal – “the system was a manifestation of our failure to make the transition from private club to public institution. These changes have been made independently and it is now more transparent and accountable.”

When asked about his predecessor’s resignation, the Speaker becomes more sombre. “I think Michael was very much the sacrificial lamb for the expenses scandal. He would be the first one to say that he had made mistakes and he accepted that.

“In a sense, his resignation led to the rise in the belief that that the Speaker at the helm is a key figure and can be controversial. It increased the pressure on his successor to make a good fist of it. I feel very keenly a responsibility to do my job well.”

It is clear from the outset that he is a practised politician. Unlike most people, he offers clear, professional sound bites instead of the usual rambling explanations. His conversation is lucid and well-constructed and he is rather good at talking round the question. However, he is engaging to listen to and can be surprisingly forthright when you least expect it (and when, arguably, it is least relevant).

For example, when the question of the automatic right of bishops to sit in the House of Lords is raised, his response is as follows: “as I am now Speaker and this is hugely contentious, I of course hold no view, but when I was free to hold an opinion I was in favour of a wholly or predominantly elected second chamber. When we debated the subject of Lords reform, I spoke and made a particular point of saying in the modern age that the automatic inclusion of bishops was wrong. That was my view then and I leave it up to you to speculate if it might continue to be my private view.” Perhaps this was his intention: to dangle scandal in front of the audience with little risk to his impartiality.

We choose to change the subject in our interview itself. He says he was attracted to the role of Speaker because “I had become much less adversarial than I was and much less attracted to the ping-pong of party politics and much more focused on the work of Parliament”.

Always the historian, he explains more: “in the past, the role of Speaker was a dangerous thing because you were accountable to the monarchy. People avoided it and would present disqualification speeches explaining why they weren’t up to the job.

“Campaigning used to be seen as something that one just didn’t do – ‘terribly bad show, old boy’. It was an attitude left over from the British class system and old fashioned snobbery. I think that’s bunkum … it’s a very important role and one that a lot of people want. I campaigned openly, was the first to publish a manifesto and I was the fortunate victor.”

Does he think that politics can be too adversarial at the moment? “It can be. In some cases one has to accept that there is a very strong difference of opinion about something based on a real difference in principle values. But I do think that the public like adversarialism to be kept within reasonable limits. I’m not either supporting or opposing the coalition, but I think the idea that people work together and try to see each other’s point of view is something that the public rather like.”

But despite this rather conciliatory point of view, he is vitriolic in his opinion towards the BNP. “Thankfully, —they have been for the most part warded off. I do believe unashamedly that the BNP is a fascist party. The major parties have got to ensure they’ve got credible policies to ward off the extreme right, but am I confident that we will continue to have a Parliament without a fascist presence? I am cautiously optimistic.”

Listening to him speak, you do genuinely get the feeling he was exasperated with the old political culture.

“MPs need to redouble their efforts within their constituencies … otherwise we’re just preaching to the converted.”

He recently led a group of young people from across the country in a debate within the Chamber for a Youth Parliamentary session. It would seem that some MPs were less than thrilled about the idea of children sitting on their hallowed benches. One advised the Speaker that, at the very least, “they’ll leave chewing gum all over the seats.” The Speaker replied that he expected the children would behave far better than the majority of the opposition during PMQ’s – this turned out to be correct.

Before the interview, it was made clear that we were not to ask about his views on politics. We test the strength of this direction with a question on tuition fees – would he have gone to university if he had had to pay £9,000? He responds saying it’s not for him to comment on individual policy of the government and “it’s very difficult to go back in time and imagine what one would have done”. Our hearts sink.

Then something happens. A glint comes into the Speaker’s eye. Our journalistic antennas are raised. There may be something more here.

“It would have been hugely challenging. I went to university on a full grant. It would have been excruciatingly painful for me to have to repay a very large sum of money and I’m not sure my father would have been happy for me to get in a massive amount of debt. It’s not for me to express a view for the government’s policy or against it. But I do think it’s incredibly important to take steps to ensure that access to university is determined by ability and commitment rather than ability to pay.” We can practically see the Press Secretary twitching in alarm.

Despite the heightened rhetoric, it’s hard not to warm to him. “The role of Speaker is a privilege. I had strong support in the Labour party, considerable in the Lib Dems, and some from Conservatives. I was considered by some to be too young and too liberal minded. All I can do in response to criticism is to try to concentrate on doing a good job.”

Our hard journalist hearts begin to melt. It’s hard not to be won over by such honesty, whether real or faked. And he even kept Brian Cantor, the Vice-Chancellor, waiting in order to answer our last few questions.

“The duties of politicians are first to country, then to constituency and only then to party. I need to stick to my convictions.” His speech appeals to the patriot in each of us and it is this which confirms our belief that Parliament made the right decision in electing him Speaker. The expenses scandal only confirmed what has been known for a long time: British politics needs to change.

Although only a masochist would attempt to be part of his public relations team, one can’t help but admire a man so skilled in the art of chaos while remaining firmly in control of himself. Subversive? Perhaps. But in this day and age, that is no bad thing for someone leading one of the most confrontational democratic chambers.

“My relationship with the whips was characterised by trust and understanding – I didn’t trust them and they didn’t understand me.” We wouldn’t trust him to fit the mould either.

Holding any high position in a society is intense. You find yourself running out of seminars to make meetings and, worst of all, having that constant feeling when you go to bed that, today, you just didn’t accomplish enough. Production weekend is always a challenge. You find yourself away from home for 24 hour stretches, screening calls and doing seminar reading at 5am surrounded with cold Chinese. It’s the weighty responsibility of knowing that any mistake, no matter how small, in those 24 pages, is your fault. It’s reviewing Fusion.

It’s also the joy of knowing when you’ve produced something really great. It’s seeing the younger years thrive and develop skills far superior to what you had at their stage. It’s the (very occasional) feeling that you have a thousand things to do and they are all under control. More than anything else, it’s knowing that you are incredibly lucky to have the chance to do something most people never will.

So, as I come to the end of my tenure as MUSE editor, I find myself asking: was it worth it?

If I look at the cold hard facts, it probably wasn’t. I don’t want to be a journalist but have sacrificed my degree, friendships and relationships for what is essentially an editorial internship. Having so much to do forces you to make choices you never thought you would. There have been times when, due to a vital stand-off with a photographer or a power-struggle with a colleague, I have abandoned people who needed me. I now lose my temper and, more worryingly, my sense of humour. My seminar tutors generally view attendance as a surprise and preparation as a gift from God.

Although, rationally, the magazine was probably not worth it, it was. If you’ve ever worked for something that you truly love then you understand. If not, then you should. The passion and drive that the newspaper instils is something that everyone should feel. If for no other reason than understanding that success is not about talent or intelligence; it’s about waking up early and not leaving until the job is done.

I love this magazine and I love the people that I have worked with. We see each other at our very worst; when an article has fallen through at 4am, a relationship has ended and an essay deadline is looming (and not been started). Often, it’s all three. Anyone who is still willing to invite you to a social occasion after seeing that has got to be worth staying friends with.

The fact that I have been forced to make difficult decisions only makes everything so much better when it goes according to plan. The time and people managing skills you develop are impressive. Job interviews are no longer terrifying because you’ve already had a face off with an irate NUS President. Essay deadlines? Pah, I can write 1,500 words in an hour!

You become convinced that every problemhas a solution; you just have to work hard enough to find it. You move mountains.

So there it is. The truth. Was it hard? Most certainly, but then so is everything worth doing. I feel incredibly privileged to have worked with so many talented and impressive individuals. MUSE, thank you for your time, your patience, and your support.

My apologies for what is most certainly a very self-indulgent column. I promise the next one will be filled with scintillating gossip about the crazy third year I most definitely intend to have. Or at least a joke or two.

33%. The number of people who admit they believe in ghosts. To test, we dressed up in white sheets to scare the NOUSE office. Jones told us not to be silly and get back to work. Statistic must be wrong.

1584. A French explorer discovered pumpkins in America. ‘Gros melons,’ they were called. Based solely on repeated viewings of Pocahontas, we wonder whether it was really the vegetable he was referring to.

10. The number of steps in Wikihow’s pumpkin carving guide. We’ve always been a fan of the two step method. 1) buy pumpkin. 2) recruit freshers to carve. It’s character building. At least we don’t make them do it naked (football).

17,000. The number of films made about vampires. That’s basically just Twilight and porn. We thought about making one of the shoot but it was a bit nippy. We’ll let you decide which category it would be.

800lbs. The weight of the first pumpkin boat driven by a car battery. The plan is to put a festive candle atop Dep. Numbers and set her a-sail. Keep it on the DL. Health and Safety would never approve.

5. Number of ways to recognize a ghost. One is if they are incapable of speaking. Another is if they’re dressed in inappropriate clothing. So that’s basically all of Ziggy’s, then.

2. The number of names for the Zombie Apocalypse, Z-day to its friends. This is a particular senario in which those bitten by zombies become the undead and rise up to rule the world. The next one is 2015. Coming soon to cities near you.

18th century, Ireland. A match-making cook was known to bury a ring in her mashed potatoes on Halloween night hoping to bring love to the person who found it. Bury it in her ‘mashed potatoes’, eh? Whaaey whaeeey.

50/50. The liklihood Numbers will survive the upcoming transition. We feel our LPN (Lol-per-Number) trajectory will stand us in good stead. We hope to see you on the other side.

The relationship between Editor, Deputy Editor and MUSE Editor is indescribable. We are each other’s biggest critics, but also strongest support. When we first took over, the doubt was palatable. We were the underdogs, we were inexperienced and, worst of all, we were girls. But we not only survived, we did bloody well. Here’s to us, we deserve it.

Liv, I genuinely couldn’t have done it without you. Your patience and attention to detail constantly amaze me. Thank you for your time, your support and, most of all, your unending faith. You so rarely get the acknowledgement you deserve. I am so grateful for your willingness to put yourself in the firing line, whether it was telling me I was out of line or berating a rogue section editor for the good of the magazine. Mia, I have loved watching you mature, both in journalism and in life, over the past year. I can’t believe that the shy 18-year-old who knew Nick Cave is now perfectly capable of making the magazine. Liv and I are so proud of you. We have every confidence you’ll do very well.

Second years: I have to admit that when you first joined the paper, I had my suspicions. Change is scary and uncertainty is worse. A year on, you have become my closest friends. Thank you for your research, your cut-outs and your enthusiasm. As elections approach, you’ll be nervous, but that is no bad thing. Have faith that we prepared you for the road ahead, whatever it may be. Be patient with the Macs and Quark. And the Freshers. Know we’ll always be here to offer advice and will try not to interfere. Promise. Good luck, guys. You’re ready.

And finally, to my housemates. There are few people who know quite what a toll this job can take, but you do and have often suffered alongside me. Thank you for always being on my side, even when I was wrong. For dealing with my tantrums, erratic bath times and food thieving. Considering the cleaning row this morning, I think my last edition could not have come soon enough. This paper is dedicated to you, whether you read it or not.

On the journey up the M1, I found myself making a series of solemn vows; this term I would attend all lectures, prepare for every seminar and go to the gym at least five times a week.

As third year looms closer and closer, we are forced to take stock of our time at university. To facilitate this process, I shall lead you, dear reader, through a little thought experiment. I am one third philosopher, after all.

What three adjectives would you use to describe yourself? Think about it. Intelligent probably featured somewhere in that list, perhaps along with interesting and entertaining? Maybe even ambitious or accomplished? Write it down, if you’re that way inclined.

Now, think about what three adjectives others would use to describe you, based purely on your actions at university. No longer quite such a flattering exercise, is it?

I was once told that the key to success was to imagine the person you want to be and then act like them. What do you want to achieve with your time here? What impression do you want to leave behind?

At university, it’s often easy to lose track of the bigger picture and become someone who merely reacts to situations rather than controls them. Maybe it’s time for this to change?

There’s a reason those involved in Nouse bang on about societies: they matter. If you want to be thought of as driven, then join campus media or York Entrepreneurs. If you’d like to be cultured, then audition for Drama Barn or join one of the arts societies. These don’t have to be lofty goals but you need to really want to achieve them. Otherwise, they’ll never happen.

Perhaps you want to be that slightly posh rugby boy who sleeps with lots of girls. In the words of our Sports Editors: go for it, my son.

(As I am currently being held accountable by YUSU for any encouragement, subliminal or otherwise, for you to participate in activities that might be damaging … use a condom.)

Despite the Hes East expansion, our campus is still small. It’s easy and often viewed as acceptable to get lost in the daily interactions that seem oh-so-important. While it’s very exciting that the cute boy across the room asked you for coffee, you don’t need to spend all evening analysing it. We’re young, but we don’t have that much time left here. And is ‘that girl’ really the person you want to be?

You may not know. I’m certainly not sure. I do know that I want to be known as honest and kind and incredibly efficient. Although life taught me somewhat of a cruel (and unending) lesson last year about over-committing myself, I don’t want to waste my time and intend to embrace all the opportunities this year offers with both hands. If nothing else, job applications are just around the corner.

I hold Socrates personally responsible for any bad behaviour last year. His quote: “enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think” certainly sounds like a blessing when drunk.

Being on the sofa with a bowl of Cheerios is fun – for an hour. Scoring the winning goal or being elected to a position or helping someone through Nightline is so much more rewarding. As is having a really crazy night in Leeds that ends up in Edinburgh.

Leave university the person you want to be. Or at least leave university having done something. It’ll be worth it, I promise.

4. The number of people you will meet in Freshers’ Week and still be friends with by third year. And half of them you’ll have slept with. The other half will be kind of annoying.

1. The number of Nouse journalists who stated most people are “off their bonk and giving it the barry” during Freshers’ Week. Apparently, the latter stems from the phrase “give it the Barry McGuigan-biggun.” Right.

6.3 million. The average amount of fungal bacteria festering in your communal bathroom. Those shower shoes your mum insisted you bring aren’t looking too shabby now.

3. The average number of discarded knickers found, per college, by the porters. And those are only the ones they tell us about. The sexy ones go conveniently ‘missing’.

5. The number of daylight hours you will see during Freshers’ Week. Sadly, this is not quite enough to turn you into Edward Cullen. Better luck next time, boys.

24 minutes. The length of time it takes before that friendly girl suggests a game of Never Have I Ever. Apparently everyone just had to know about her clit ring. Snaps for her.

£1.10. The average price per condom. Depending on how lucky you intend to get this week, it may be worth hightailing it over to YUSU for some freebies. If you join Nouse, you could interview a Sabb all in the same visit.

21,000. The amount of excess calories you’re likely to consume in alcohol and cheesy chips. That’s almost a pound in a week. Bet you’re not feeling so proud of being one of ‘Mr Efes’ regulars’ now.

64 days. The average length of time it will take you to realise very little is compulsory here. It’s longer for public school students but then they were always a bit slow. Something to do with being in Alcuin, perhaps?

90%. The percentage of STYCs and Parents who took on the role in order to shark the youth. Some colleges make you promise to look but not touch. You didn’t sign a damned thing though, did you?

Never one to pass up an opportunity for nostalgia, I find myself reflecting on when I first arrived on this duck-infested campus. As is typical of people of my age, I feel it is important to impart some advice. Don’t let the concrete exterior faze you. I nearly cried when I first saw campus and I don’t even notice now. You will love some of the people you meet but they may not love you. This doesn’t matter. One of the downsides of having a University full of interesting and diverse people is that they may come with prejudices. While these may fade with time, the feeling that you compromised yourself for them will not. Your college doesn’t matter. Don’t get hung up about your educational background; you’re the only one who notices. Finally, enjoy yourself. Make mistakes. Join societies. Join Nouse.

To the old hats, welcome back. Whether the trip to York was filled with anticipation or longing for the summer past, you are here now so you might as well make the best of it. We are lucky enough to have an entire year stretching before us that is filled with possibilities. You only regret the things you don’t do, so get involved. Don’t get stuck in a rut – make new friends, take up new opportunities and perhaps even learn to cook (M8-9 shameless plug). I intend to.

Now: no worries if your TV licence hasn’t come through, try out the Ad-Lib M5, MUSE’s own de-Gansta shows us the edgy side of ballet M6-7, Evans discusses (campus) events M10, Surviving an internship or Lewinsky has a lot to answer for M11, we embark on a fruitless task M12-13, Terry Waite explains his story M14-15, Fashion Month explained M16-17 and a play-and-pay Food and Drink guide M23.

How little they understood,
How little they cared,
About the nutrition concerns
their parents would soon air.

I’m not going to lie,
To fib or to deny
That once you’re in York’s snare.
Steak ordered will never come out rare.

So gather my children
Round the campfire
And listen to the grub wisdom
I have acquired.

Despite everyone coming to University for different reasons, most people aim to become an expert in at least one thing. Some aim to become a connoisseur in what a friend of mine describes as ‘panty peeling’, others intend to develop their VK palate and some will even desire to master their reading list. While I would hesitate to detract from the nobility of any of these goals, I must admit that I have spent the past two years becoming an expert on campus food, if I do say so myself.

Vanbrugh – Vanbrugh will always have a special place in my heart, possibly due to the vicinity of the Nouse office. Many a time I have stumbled into the cafe in search of a baguette, safe in the knowledge that no matter how rough I feel, someone else will look worse. And, in a campus eatery, one takes comfort in such matters.

The baguettes, while mayonnaise soaked, aren’t bad although a little expensive. The real food (usually roast or vegetarian option) is good old fashioned Yorkshire stodge and reasonably priced. On Sunday, they do Sunday roast. Every day, some sort of hot pudding is served, with custard, which offers all of the comfort of home with none of the parents.

B Henry’s – Although this may result in a very angry message from the Alcuin JCRC about betraying my college roots, I feel my independence as a reviewer must be preserved at all costs. I’m like the Nellie Bly of food. Ish.

Anyway, I digress. Cheesy chips are good (standard fare on our dear campus) and I’m told the sandwiches are edible. Mostly, though, this cafe is frequented by staff and post-grads. It’s also a little cold and clinical but a refurbishment may be in the works.

The Courtyard – my personal fave. The place where everyone knows your name, where the food is cheap and the bartenders are always there with a cheeky smile and quick cup of coffee. Somewhere to mourn the bad times and celebrate the good. Also, the only place I’ve come across where liquid lunches are standard between lectures and there is plenty of people watching. For some reason, this is the place where break-up chats, get-back-together chats, and massive housemate rows all go down.

Although the menu changes pretty frequently, the burgers and painnis are firm favourites. The breakfast is pretty good as well (especially bacon sandwiches) although it does involve getting out of bed before midday. This place is always crowded during lunch but it can be nice for dinner and drinks especially if you can’t be bothered to go off campus.

Derwent – watch this space! Derwent has been usually refurbished with a Costa and new bar over the Summer, so for now, your guess is as good as ours!

Roger Kirk – this place resembles an airport lounge that is completely empty most of the time. The food is greasy (pizza and chips five days a week) and you have to pay for ketchup which happens to be a personal pet peeve of mine. This being said, the cake is amongst some of the best on campus and you can always get a seat so it’s not all bad.

Wentworth – a college so far away from fresherdom, you’ll probably never venture. It’s a mythical location under a veil of mystery wrapped up with a bow of vagueness. Or something like that. The curry is raved about and the coffee’s pretty good.

300 ball boys (and girls) required to control the courts. They undergo special training, dontcha know. I wonder what that involves, my little Ralph Lauren wearing friends? Just make sure you get the money first.

15 years, 282 days. The age of the youngest female winner ever in 1996. Some say Queen of the Courts. I say jailbait.

27,000. The amount of kilos of strawberries eaten every year at Wimbledon. I hear you can buy them in tubs. After consumption, stick a sail in it and call it a boat! In case it floods, you see. It is England.

7,000 litres. The amount of cream which accompanies said strawberries. Dep Numbers and I question this. I’m not sure the strawberries and cream numbers correlate. Perhaps the players have discovered more stimulating ways to consume the clotted cream. Whaey, whaey (had to be done.)

500,000 people attend Wimbledon. A reliable source (Adam Shergold) tells me they now show sport on TV. Who knew? And why bother?

1. The top court at Wimbledon. The easiest way to get a seat is via public ballot. Here at Numbers HQ we take a much more elitist attitude towards seating. We have thrones.

52,000 balls are used every year. That’s more than our dear friends at Vision will have in a lifetime. Even if they add them up collectively. Don’t worry, the Nouse girls will help.

£2.50. The amount it costs to buy a set of three balls used. They’re not old, they’re vintage.

40 miles of string fitted to 2,000 rackets over the fortnight. Dep Numbers and I spent 20 minutes pondering this. We’ll let you know.

0%. What I scored on the World Cup trivia test (for kids) to see if I had the skills for World Cup by Numbers. FIFA? UEFA? Leigh Clarke owned that bad boy. Show off.

This is Numbers and Dep Numbers for MUSE signing off for the summer.

There is a special time late on Saturday night of production when the News team have gone home and it is just the Sports and Features sections. Bad music is played and Features tries (again) to get a much sought-after invite to the super-secret and uber-elite Sports’ parties. It is incredibly relaxed. Adam Shergold and Leigh Clarke, I’m not sure whether it’s the two of you, the fact that you place absolutely no importance on MUSE or some combination of both, but this year has been bearable because of you both. And next edition, you just might get a phone call from Liv and I looking for some much needed perspective. Sorry about that.

Finally, to the third years: Henry James Foy, Sian Turner, Liam O’Brien, and Holly Thomas. You got us when we were soft and turned us into hard, inquisitive journalists, desperate for approval, and willing to do anything to get the story. All of our technique, our pet peeves and our leadership is founded in what you taught us. You turned us into the editors we are today and for that I cannot thank you enough. And Liam, I have to admit that you were most certainly right about pretty much everything. Go figure. This edition is for you guys, whether you want it or not.

Those still reading may think this has nothing to do with them. This is a mistake. As a proud of member of campus media, I consider myself responsible for reporting such significant events and then presenting a pithy comment piece telling you what to think. Here’s the lowdown:

Heslington Hall would like prospective students to think that York is a campus full of invigorating societies that will open your mind to the wonders of student life. This is because they, the administrators, have provided the funds and infrastructure for societies to blossom. Any club president or regular reader of this newspaper will tell you this is not the case.

Societies should be able to utilise the space they need

Table-gate is a perfect example. Derwent Bar is a massive space which would be perfect for exercise groups to practice in. It is ridiculous that Room Booking Services have a shortage of space because empty bars are full unmovable tables. Societies should be able to utilise the space they need when necessary. However, because Commercial Services, once again, chose to focus on their bottom line rather than what we the people actually need, is not the case.

The University told us they were taking away 24 hour portering because we didn’t need them. Now, they are purchasing tables that require two trained porters each to move them for an event. This takes up more of their valuable time and provides unnecessary expense to the JCRCs who didn’t want them in the first place.

Derwent Bar should belong to the Derwenters. Failing this, it should at least belong to the students. One of the benefits of attending a small, campus based university should be the ability to hold impromptu events in colleges. If the space is taken up by pointless furniture, this can not happen.

Societies makes our University great. They provide a place and a community for all interests but they must be cultivated. YUSU does an excellent job of this. The University does not.

30 sq. inches. The amount of fabric that the very first bikini consisted of. Practically modest by today’s standards! Just look at the “shorts” worn in The Courtyard.

1950s. The year in which it was decided that nude photos were not pornographic if they did not show pubic hair. This led to the so-called “pubic wars” between Penthouse and Playboy. Google to find out more.

60%. The percentage of the Nouse office girls who have sunbathed topless. One bikini between two, anyone? Shot gun the bottom half…

26. The number of members of the ‘Mankini Revolution News’ community. Apparently, it’s part of the male sexual revolution. I personally think it is objectification of men. Something should be done.

180. The number of pages devoted to bikinis in the 25th anniversary edition of Sports Illustrated. These clever chappies made scantily clad women acceptable on coffee tables everywhere. And a generation of Nouse sports editors have been thanking them ever since…

50%. What I got in the string bikini quiz. Questions were tricky: What is a string bikini’s nickname? Stand-in Deputy Numbers and I went for nanga nanga. Fun to say, even more fun to watch fall off.

1960s. The decade in which the song ‘itsy bitsy, teeny weeny, yellow polka dot bikini’ was made famous. Incidentally, I’m always tempted to sing ‘who wears short shorts’ when bumping into certain male friends. You know who you are.

2,327. The number of people who viewed the ‘bikini chick’ video on ‘American Idol’. Yes, she did get through. No, she was not good. But she did pivot halfway through to allow Mr. Cowell a cheeky glance.

1.The number of bikini quotes discovered by Numbers Research: “A bikini is like a statistic, what it reveals is suggestive, but what it conceals is vital.” We take the same approach here at Numbers HQ. Can’t you tell?

Striding (let’s be honest, driving) home after production weekend is sweet. For the past week, everything has been dedicated to creating the 24 pages you are about to read and it is finally finished. The sleep on Monday night is the sleep of the victorious, the sleep of someone who has overcome obstacles (lazy freshers, corrupt files, no Frubes, etc.) and still succeeded. I have been known to announce to my housemates on my return: “ I am drinking from the keg of glory… – bring me the finest muffins and bagels in all the land!” (WW). Stat. They generally ignore me.

However, after wallowing in my stamina and skill for a few hours, the tidal wave of reality hits. Suddenly, it’s no longer enough that you’ve produced an edition. Friends need seeing, significant others need attention and you’re going to have to say something in a seminar eventually. This is the first wave. Then comes the second: demands for nights out, essays, house food shopping trips, grandparents’ emails, internship applications and it’s exam season for the second time this term. All the things you have studiously been avoiding come crashing down. You need that keg back. Please?