Yorkshire, oriental and tapas are not three words that go comfortably together. With the Yorkshire stereotype tending towards a mean old man with a whippet, a flat cap, and questionable dentistry, my first thought was of miniscule portions. I pictured a couple of beansprouts sprinkled onto a beer-mat sized plate from a great height, a few lonely prawns cuddling up to each other for warmth. Then, remembering the actuality of the huge, giant Yorkshire pudding I had stuffed down just the day before, I pictured an opposite horror. Huge enormous plates of noodles, dumped onto a plate that would need to be eaten with a fork and trowel a la BFG. In either case, it was with trepidation that I tripped down to Indochine in the rain.

Sandwiched down a side street just off from superclub The Gallery, the restaurant is hidden away and looks pretty snoreworthy from the outside. While it’s website shows pictures of some kind of space age, Futurama-esque mega bar, the reality is a modest, small, but pleasant restaurant. Didn’t much like the wallpaper, or the angry signs on the kitchen saying “Keep OUUUUT!”, but it certainly wasn’t bad. There wasn’t blood dripping from the walls or anything like that at least.

However even if there was a sanguine interior, I probably would have gone back because the food at Indochine was fantastic. The menu offers two sides, one a range of large noodle dishes and bento boxes, the other a range of little oriental “tapas” plates from Japan, China, Vietnam, Indonesia, Korea, Singapore and Thailand.

Secretly, I think the restaurant owners want you to go for the little plates. They give the menu to you this side up. They nudge it as you look like you’re about to flip over. I have a sneaking suspicion that if you ordered the pad thai and nothing else, they’d make a stupid face, put on a high pitched voice and pretend to be you behind the kitchen doors. Or maybe not. It’s an open kitchen that you could see if you were upstairs. In any event, I reckon you’re marking yourself out as a bit of a boring Bertie to your date if you pick the dufus side…

To start there was crispy duck and pancakes. Pretty straightforward really, to be honest I don’t see how any restaurant could screw that up. The pancakes weren’t black. The duck wasn’t still alive. It was all good.

But then, the tapas. It was so amazing, it was like each mouthful was Billy Zane picking me up, kissing me passionately, telling me I was 20 times more attractive than Kelly Brook and then offering me a job as the Observer food critic, in addition to two tickets to Disneyland Florida.

Char sui pork and teriyaki salmon were both sticky and sweet without being sickly or drowned in a swamp of sauce. Gyoza (steamed pork dumplings) were piping hot and delicately spiced, but best of all was the tempura. Squid, king prawns and scallops were all perfectly cooked, in a crisp but incredibly light outer shell of batter. I wanted to keep eating forever. However, we were tipsy and full so we didn’t, which was very sad.

At £3.50-£4.00 per plate, Indochine isn’t exactly cheap. Four plates, a ¼ of a peking duck and half a bottle of wine each came to £22 each. However, I would go there tomorrow if they’d have me, which is saying something because I actually don’t have 22 more pounds, so I’d have to go into my overdraft to do so. I still totally would though. The staff are very nice, the wine doesn’t taste like feet, the wallpaper’s a bit iffy and the food is incredible. Don’t all go at once. I will kick you and then pretend it’s an accident to get a table.

People say that they are “sad” to be leaving but “sad” is such an overused word. I am “sad” that my room is too messy for me to get from my bed to the door without me impaling my foot on some lethal pointy object. I am “sad” that the hit ITV3 program “River Monsters” was cruelly denied a second series. I am “sad” that my parents unreasonably refuse to budge on the “no mini-pig” policy. But “sad” to be leaving York? Doesn’t quite seem to cover it.

Actually, behind all the hysteria, which will undoubtedly reach fever pitch on the alcohol drenched fields of Big D, I’m not so much “sad” as “terrified”. I have nothing to reassure me that a year from now, I won’t be rocking backwards and forwards in the corner of my bedroom in Essex, foaming at the mouth and weirdly caressing photos of my housemates from first year Slag and Drag. I don’t think I will, but you never know…

I’m not going to pretend that York has vastly expanded my culinary horizons. It hasn’t. True, I did find out that people actually eat chips and gravy. Also, I feel that I can confidently rebuke the stereotype that Yorkshire portions are miserly having eaten the most obscene portions ever in Heslington’s lovely Deramore Arms. A sandwich that’s actually a baguette, an entire chicken, a jar of chutney, and enough chips to bury Ronald McDonald alive?! That’s not a sandwich, it’s a buffet on a plate…

Apart from that though, the food I’ve had here is basically the same. What I’m frightened of though, is that the perfect, wonderful and memorable situations where I’ve experienced food here, won’t ever exist ever again. Take the chicken spicy pizza, for example. Throughout the past three years, a Vikings Kitchen Spicy Chicken pizza has been mine and my housemate’s answer to all emotional trauma. Breakups, failed exams, death threats from musical agents and court injunctions, have all been solved by this excellently priced grease Frisbee. I have sobbed over one, I have fallen asleep in one, and I have pretended one was my face to cheer someone up. They don’t do pizza delivery anywhere near my sleepy little village at home. I don’t know what I’ll do without it.

Sure, I can cook myself a mega hangover breakfast at home. In fact, it’ll probably taste better. Nicer bacon, fresh bread rather than Hovis from the freezer, a plate that I know won’t have a crusty shard of noodle adhered to the bottom. But am I ever going to be this hungover again? Will I ever *sob* lose the desire to P-A-R-T-Y?! Will there ever be such ghostly faces in my lounge, muttering feeble encouragement as I grill, whilst they are too incapacitated to move and switch on Jeremy Kyle?

Perhaps. Some things for certain though, will never happen again. I don’t think I will ever witness another unique cheese fight/drunken brawl combination. Cheddar will always be an ineffective weapon. I don’t think I will ever cook a Thanksgiving dinner for 15 people dressed up as Sarah Palin while my friend cheerleads around me and squirts whipped cream in the air. I know I will never come downstairs to find a chunk of a freshly baked cake literally grabbed from its middle, and then have no option but to spend two days interviewing suspects and forcing them to provide alibis. These things will never happen again.

That’s not to say that I will never enjoy food again once I’ve passed the notorious A1 Adult Store, however. It will be nothing short of a joy, for example, to be able to open a fridge and find more than a scummy 2cm of Parmesan and 3 petit-filou’s 2 months past their sell-by date. It will be wonderful to use big plates, side plates, salad plates and bowls all at once, and not to tremble in fear of the consequential washing up. It will be comforting to be finally back together as a family, eating the most wonderful, delicious meals possible, cooked by someone who never manages to spend £113.50 on distracting items in Sainsbury’s, and yet still produce daily feasts that would make the Roux brother’s sob uncontrollably into each others arms.

Where will I actually be a year from now? 3 years, 5 years, well beyond a decade?! I have no idea. The food will perhaps be different. If I’ve got lucky, hot buttered lobster with champagne on ice and a breathtaking sea-view. If not so much, hopefully at least half a kit-kat chunky and a cup of tea. All I know is whatever I’m eating, I want the same people next to me.

Recently however, I seem to have had somewhat of a lapse. Since I finished my degree, I have gloated outrageously, hideously, and without restraint. I have literally laughed in people’s faces. I have asked pedantic and irritating questions that I well know the answer to. I have danced around the kitchen in my pants and played ‘WAG Anthems’ at obscure and insociable times, with max volume on my speakers. My respect for other people’s work ethic is, I would say, minimal at best. Its not that I think I’m going to do exceptionally well at my degree – I don’t. I just know that I have finished, and some people haven’t. Some people, when this is published on Wednesday, will be queuing outside the library at 9am and praying not to have to sit on a FatBoy beanbag. I won’t though, I’ll be asleep. I’ll get up later, have an elaborate and unnecessarily large breakfast like pancakes, maple syrup and bacon, and then get back into my unmade bed to play diner dash for another four to five hours and drink strawberry Frij. And that, my friends, is why I cannot help but be so repellently smug.

Those of you who are reading this though, are not revising. Therefore you too are a gloater like me, and we can gloat together. So, in culinary terms, here’s how to make the most of your new found freedom and your housemates irrepressible doom in the most irritating way possible.

Fry things. No one can really ignore a frier. The sound of vegetable oil firing off like an AK47 in the kitchen should be enough to disturb any hardened student, locked away in their bedroom. If not, the yelps of those foolish enough to enter in will surely do the trick, as they leap in extravagant and outlandish movements to avoid the pellets of boiling hot fat. Fry tempura, fry fish, fry chips or mars bars, but just remember that if it isn’t pinging against your ceiling, it’s not nearly lethal enough. For extreme frying and extra fun, pretend you are doing shot put: swing a slotted spoon of recently fried food and fat above your head, before suddenly releasing and watching its elegant and deadly flight elsewhere.

Space invasion. Nothing says “I’ve finished and you can’t ignore me” like an entire kitchen dripping with fresh pasta. Hang spaghetti from the most invasive places possible: other peoples clothes airers, a shower or your front door are all good starting points. Remember that everytime anyone has to move any of your cooking, they’ll get annoyed and will eventually have to ask why you did this. Then you can tell them that you’ve finished your degree. If you want you can combine it with some kind of YES! Airpunch or lower body thrust. Either way, you win.

Micro-wahey!-ve. Put something in your microwave and listen to the ping. Sounds almost exactly like “woop! I’ve finished!” doesn’t it? Microwaving anything and everything is a sure fire way to expressive your positive and upbeat mood, without actually saying anything annoying. Externally, you can say “oh yeah, your revision sounds really difficult, not long to go though, want me to test you?”, while all the while the microwave haunts “kachiiiing! I don’t care! In five mins I’ll be at the Designer Outlet wrist deep in Cadbury misshapes! Wooooop!”

1. The Exotic Lunch
Buying food on campus is expensive, and rubbish. Therefore if you must go, you must make your own lunch. “A sandwich?” you suggest. I laugh in your face. Sandwiches are for the dull and the mediocre. Did Oscar Wilde ever proclaim the merits of the “Big Fill”? Exactly. Successful people have exotic, exciting lunches that stimulate the mind and the senses. Think bento boxes. Think handmade sushi complete with intricately carved carrot ornaments. Think homemade lobster bisque made with homemade stock, served with a freshly baked, homemade roll. Spread it with home churned butter (shake cream in a jam jar…apparently) and then you’ll have the lunch of someone who deserves to be at university. If people challenge you, tell them that you’re just trying to embrace other cultures. Question why they themselves always eat white bread, arch an eyebrow, and try hard to look disappointed with them. They will not dare approach you again.

2. The Long Term Project
People admire persistence and stamina. That’s why you have to do stupid, crap things when you’re younger, like go to Brownies or be a Prefect whose sole job is to try and stop people from setting light to other peoples rucksacks (true story). Those things are good things because they show that you are committed to a cause. And being committed to something, especially something involving old people or children I think, is very good for your CV. Therefore no one can judge you for being committed to some kind of long term, coincidentally time intensive food project. For example, the vodka watermelon needs to be ‘fed’ with vodka every day, before its tasty demise in week 10. Christmas cakes too need to be pricked all over and ‘fed’ with sherry, or cheap sherrytypiestuff every single day. If you set up enough of these little projects, you will soon have a lovely, delicious, time consuming menagerie where you can happily while away the majority of the morning, before the good Jeremy Kyle comes on. If people ask you why, tell them that you’d really like to stop, but it would be a shame to now since you’ve been cultivating that special slow gin for two whole years…They will have to agree.

3. Feed The World
However hard you try, it is difficult to make cooking for one person last over three hours a day. People will soon see through your lazy, despicable ploy and frogmarch you back to the library. For some reason however there is a loophole, as feeding 20 or 30 people is suddenly seen not as excessive or moronic, but as worthy and even heroic. People are begrudgingly impressed with hilarious scale cooking, and as it obviously entails a LOT of hard work, no-one can mark you out as a slacker. Hold street parties. Invite extended family, and estranged relatives from all corners of the globe. Seek out large scale community projects and then repeatedly suggest a morale building barbeque consisting only of suckling piglets. They would be fools to refuse and once again you can sleep soundly, safe in the knowledge that you have avoided another days hard graft. Do not be depressed when you get a 3rd. Rejoice. For you have beaten ‘the man’.

Don’t get me wrong, I genuinely enjoy watching people embarrass themselves. In fact until recently, I thought maybe there was nothing I liked more and I was getting a bit anxious about it. It is pretty perverse, after all. I’d sit up late into the night Youtubing gems like ‘Fail Blog’, ‘John Daker’ and ‘Scarlet Takes A Tumble’ (search it), snorting uninhibitedly replaying all the best bits. At this point I realize that that is a particularly unflattering image, and that maybe I should lie, take the moral high-ground, and make out like at 3am I fill out my beautifully scribed diary with a quill and ink. But that is just not true. I sit and eat Twiglets and laugh mercilessly at other people’s expense, like some tyrant of the Internet. And actually, so do you.

Oh yes, that’s right, remember those X Factor auditions you snickered at? You weren’t laughing at the incredible excess of pure British musical talent were you? No, you were rolfing all over Ken Lee and the Cheeky Girls, smirking (and I think reasonably so) and those who sought out fame and attention at any cost, despite being literally rubbish at singing.

But here’s the rub. They knew they were bad. I refuse to believe that no-one questioned Wagner, or dropped a fewww little hints to him, before he strode off gallantly, mike in hand. This cooking lady, however, was clearly very good indeed. She knew what she was talking about. Hell let’s be blunt, she’d clearly eaten a fair bit. There had obviously been whole hoards behind her, oohing and aaahing at her dumplings for years, prodding her with a rolling pin all the way to the Masterchef application form. In fact, I can’t even remember if there was anything wrong with what she cooked. And then, she had crumbled. Get it? No but seriously, it was well sad. It was like watching someone else’s mum cry because they overcooked your tea, and then just having to stand and watch them sob, staring at you for ten uncomfortable minutes.

And this, my friends, is the Curse of the X. This unstoppable trend started by the wonderful Simon Cowell, and perhaps helping along by Gordon “FUCK YOU” Ramsey, to make everything big and bad and tough. People can’t cook a custard now without being screamed at, ‘pushed to the edge’ and basically made to wet themselves with tension. It all seems a bit hysterical. In my mind cooking is about warmth, love, calmness, and understanding, sitting outside in the garden with a barbeque or a cuppa and a scone, none of this stress. So for now, I’m off to The Darling Buds of May and Wall-E, waiting for TV to become a bit nicer again.

But you should. Because in my opinion, Jack LaLanne ought to be everyone’s hero. Described as the ‘godfather of fitness’ on Wikipedia, he may seem an unlikely choice, especially seeing as I don’t really ‘do’ fitness as such. To me, people who claim that they ‘do’ fitness mainly do 6.30 wake ups, tofu and wheatgrass breakfasts, and tight, tight shorts. Sadly I don’t ‘do’ any of that. I do leisurely 12 o’clock risings, a full English or mug of Golden Nuggets in front of Judge Judy. ‘Fitness’ seems rude, abrupt and alarming. ‘Fitness’ conjures up an army sergeant screaming ‘DROP DOWN AND GIVE ME TWENTY!’ to a girl who has only recently mastered the gentle balance games of the Wii Fit.

And yet just like Kate Winslet on Titanic, Jack stole my heart. “Overweight? Tired? lacking energy?” his shopping channel asked a woefully hungover 15 year old. ‘Mmm’ I slurred in the affirmative. But Jack had my back. His ‘Jack LaLanne Powerjuicer’ was apparently all I needed to convert me from a zombified albino teen, to a bronzed Californian beach babe with exotically glowing skin and a stomach like a snare drum. “Change your life, save your life” urged 80 year old Jack enthusiastically, adding “You’re the most important person you have, if you don’t do it who will?”. He was so right: if all the vitamins in a beige, foamy juice couldn’t save me, what hope was there left? He was like the dalai lama of the shopping channel, and since that moment I hung on his every word. He wasn’t like the beardy women on the Nads waxing channel, or the glib, orange salesmen on PriceDrop TV. Jack was trying to save me from myself. I trusted Jack. And so I bought it. Both the philosophy, and the juicer.

Admittedly the juicer was a little bit disappointing. Yes, it juiced whole fruits without the awkwardness of peeling, chopping, or moving my wrist. And yes, I could probably have used the left over ‘dry’ juice pulp to make many items such as ‘salsa!’ had I not had any money, or any other food left in the world. The fact remains however: the ‘Jack LaLanne Powerjuicer’ creates an unfortunate, fruity cappuccino type juice, with foam floating on the surface. I’m not bitter, but all I’ll say is that you never see the Tropicana businessmen wiping away a tangerine tash inbetween their bites of eggs benedict Arnold, do you? Exactly.

However, Jack’s philosophy remains inspiring. One of the most quoted Californian pensioners, his opinion on anything is golddust. “Would you get your dog up in the morning for a cup of coffee and a donut?” he asks. “Probably millions of Americans got up this morning with a cup of coffee, a cigarette and a donut. No wonder they are sick and fouled up.” Clearly, the man speaks sense. Or take his theory on warming up before exercise. “15 minutes to warm up? Does a lion warm up when he’s hungry? ‘Uh oh, here comes an antelope. Better warm up.’ No! He just goes out there and eats the sucker.”

So, whilst I’m hesitant to shell out for more of Jack’s dubious kitchen gadgetry, his outlook on life is worth it. He was a man who shunned convention, bucked the trend, a rare case of someone who lived their life how they actually wanted to. Now as it happens that was freakishly healthily, but I’m not for a moment pretending that I’m about to live off egg whites and raw vegetables in the hope that I, like Jack, will be able to shackle myself to 70 boats, and tow them 1.5 miles at the age of 70. That’s literally mental. Who would do that? But seriously, what I think is worth learning from Jack is that there isn’t just one way to exist, one path for everybody. ‘I don’t want to die’ Jack is reported to have said, ‘it will ruin my image’. Well sadly, after 97 years of juicing and pumping iron, he has. But I for one will be thinking of him next time I down a ‘Green Magic’, desperately in search of something to cancel out the Pear VKs from the night before…

In this respect, it seems virtually impossible to create a hard-hitting, cutting edge, ‘save the fish’ campaign, which could rock the very core of a nation famed for its resolute dedication to the ‘turkey twizzler’. Fish don’t look cute on posters. Panda’s are a much easier ride.

But yet, as I’m sure anyone that’s managed to catch Channel 4’s recent ‘Big Fish Fight’ will have noticed, there seems to be a success story in the making. Since the first program last week, the petition numbers on www.fishfight.net have shot up incredibly. Sadly I can’t actually find out by how much. But I promise it’s loads, I’ve been watching it every day…

Clearly the likes of Hugh, Jamie and Gordon have managed, at first glance anyway, to woo the hearts of mouse-potatoes across the country, and in my opinion that can only be a good thing. Nevertheless it begs an interesting question: can celebrity chefs really change the buying habits of an entire nation?

At first it sounds like a bit of a no-brainer. After all, how many people can say with 100% certitude that they’re immune to the lure of celebrity? On paper, it should be a formula for instant success. And yet food seems to be one of those few things we aren’t prepared to be flippant with. Bill Bryson once astutely remarked that the British are prepared to experiment with their food to a certain extent, but “don’t fuck with their puddings”. That’s blates true. “They can take our lives but they’ll never take our trifle” etc. etc.

With this in mind, Hugh Fernley Whittingstall’s little mackerel baps sadly seem a bit limp and pathetic. Can a few famous faces and a week’s worth of fishy fun really persuade us to abandon over two centuries of cod and chips? At the end of the day, it remains to be seen. Politicians aren’t hugely known for their incredible power to listen, so supporters shouldn’t put too much emphasis on Hugh’s petition to the MEPs. Public spending though, remains powerful. Turn the hearts and minds of the British people onto dab and pollock (not the sexiest sounding fish it has to be said…) and you’re onto a winner.

And so for now, we wait. In the meantime though, it’s reasonably titter-worthy to examine the contributions of various celebs or wannabe fishstars. Gordon Ramsey has to be Exhibit A. Because *shockingly*, whilst Hugh has galliantly been flashing his nether regions into the icy Northern spray and Jamie is feverously peddling his dishes like Alan Sugar dahn the market, Gords is going to wrestle sharks. No seriously, that is actually what he’s doing… to help the depletion of cod, tuna and salmon… Que?! Don’t worry, you’re not the only one whose confused.com. But there’s no fun in wrestling sardines you see. With sharks though, well, the worlds your oyster! In fact, the opportunities for tight t-shirts, American Wife Swap storm offs and testosterone fuelled antics of every kind are rife with Jaws, and this campaign has at least exposed what’s most important to the Big G once and for all – showing off his massive guns.

In fact, as the campaign is gathering steam, more and more C listers have seen fit to tweet their pearls of wisdom. For now they make a bit of sense, but keep your eyes peeled people and your fingers crossed, things are about to get ugly… Personally I’d like to know what Jeremy Kyle, Kanye West and Mel Gibson think about all this, but that’s just me… For the more dedicated among you I’d recommend stalking York’s very own Callum Roberts, or perhaps less illegally Charles Clover’s fantastic book The End of The Line… at least he’s not always going on about his mussels…

So while I am doodling birds Eskimo-kissing on my notes for a Cinderella seminar (this is embarrassingly true…), you may well think that you are above all this. Until I tell you that Kate and Wills’ big day is predicted to boost the food and grocery industry by £360million. Ha. Bet you aren’t scoffing into your £5 Asda coronation mug quite so much now. Can you believe that they’re already out?….

The Telegraph article I got that statistic from also states that the wedding will boost the entire economy by £620m, tactfully envisaging that the nation will be rushing out to bulk buy such highbrow items as ‘Champagne’ and ‘wine’. I’m amused to see they have also added in ‘extra treats’, which I take it is their way of factoring in the thousands of packets of ‘yum-yum’s’ and cheese footballs which will surely be gracing the nations doilies too…

And if we’re honest, it is the food we really care about. Google is full of people piffling on about who should design Kate’s wedding dress and “what is the most divine flower in all of nature?”, but what people really want to know, as always, is what they’re having for tea.

Well, Charles and Diana’s wedding menu was the peak of 80’s sophistication – Brill in lobster sauce, chicken breasts garnished with lamb mousse, strawberries with clotted cream and a five-tiered Belgian monster cake. It’s a far cry from a slice of flaccid quiche and some sweaty looking salad, and people are naturally predicting something equally decadent for next year’s event.

But this is where I’d like to go against the grain a little (get it?!). In my opinion, people seem to automatically assume that posh people = posh nosh. Many a time the holy trinity of food critics on the ‘Great British Menu’ have dispatched what look like perfectly tasty little snackettes with a single phrase of death and an artfully cocked eyebrow: “but would you be happy to serve this to Your Royal Highness, THE PRINCE OF WALES?”.

Nowadays it seems that if food doesn’t come in tiers, resemble a high level of tetris or have some other kind of nerve-wracking structural complication, then it isn’t fit for a Queen. The days when chefs are required to make a tower of soup as in Black Books (“where are the turrets?!”), seem worryingly close.

This is odd to me. For one thing the Royal Family, I believe, are more than accustomed to this kind of overly-groped food. It is their every day food, their fish finger buttie equivalent if you will. For another, the Royals have frequently let slip that they actually LIKE the normal, peasanty things that us mortals lust after too. The Queen asked for a Billie The Bass one Christmas and apparently eats ‘tarte tatin with brandy crème’ on December 24th – now if that isn’t code for apple pie and custard I don’t know what is…

So wouldn’t it be refreshing if William and Kate just ask for what they actually want to eat this time round? Now if that’s ‘Chicken Liver Parfait, Oak Moss and Truffle Toast’ a la Heston then so be it, but I bet you it isn’t. And isn’t all this ‘pretending’ where so many relationships go wrong from the start? One of Kate Middleton’s earliest memories is apparently her bunny shaped birthday cake when she was seven. Now wouldn’t something as symbolic and simple as that be more special than yet another 50 tiered bad boy?! Obviously I’m being ridiculous now – brave is the chef that puts a calippo in front of Her Majesty. But I do think it’s worth remembering in amongst all this hysteria that whatever people say, taste doesn’t change with class.

“Here’s your pen, love, it’s free and it smells like blueberries, I think.”

I inhale deeply. It’s the smell of delicious anticipation, thousands of pounds leading to a dream yacht staffed solely by semi-naked men off Gillette adverts, and pen. The fumes are getting to me but I try to concentrate on the instructions from the keeper of the pens.

“Blah blah, national card, blah blah, nationwide one line, two lines …” Meh, I think I get it, can’t be that hard to figure out in any event. Mmmmm, blueberry pen…

Three minutes and 20 seconds in…

“Wahey, bingo, BINGO!” I shout, practising my winner’s speech in my head (“I’d like to thank my friends, those at head office, the pen woman who will always have a place in my heart *wipe tear*”)

Bingo caller Dave from Shoeburyness appears sceptical at my beginners luck. “Have you got one line?”

“Yes,” I beam, proudly displaying my golden ticket and flashing a winning smile.

“FALSE CLAIM!” shouts security.

“Oh, but I thought, but I thought … one line is bingo, isn’t it?”

People who can barely move from arthritis are invigorated enough by my ‘epic fail’ to actively point and laugh. Some make groaning noises, muttering things like ‘timewaster’ and scoffing maliciously. Who would have thought a stampy pen game could be so cruel?

-

Rave D. Having my housemate pay the bills via morphsuit has definitely been worth it. Extravagant, yes, but I’m feeling a million lycra dollars in my modern day invisibility cloak. A ninja jump from door to Derwent is sadly delayed by a friend who appears downstairs, bleeding profusely from the face and muttering something about fisticuffs, local youths, and a bike through some petit pois. Scum, subhuman scum. Police arrive but don’t seem to be taking it too seriously.

“Oooh, jus ‘av a pint, you’ll be alright!” they chuckle. But what about catching the vagabonds, what about sending the squad out to comb the surrounding undergrowth for guerrilla warriors or white lightning clues?

“Can I take your collar numbers officers? What are you planning to do?” I urge, but for some reason I still get the feeling they aren’t listening.

“When can we expect to hear from you?” I persist. All of a sudden, it comes to my attention that my morphy arms are limply dragging behind me, long abandoned in the drama to allow use of the hands and now flaccidly trailing behind like empty flaps of morphy skin. Oh. I try feebly to continue, but if we’re honest, nobody takes a girl in a what is essentially a shiny and stretchy babygrow seriously. I am left with no option but to rehood half an hour later, heading into the science park, York’s lone crime fighting maverick under the cover of darkness …

-

“Five of your friends took the ‘Which Shakespearan Lady Are You? Quiz’” Facebook announces, and oh look, quelle surprise, they all got Juliet. Lying in bed, my hangover affords me just enough energy to regain my usual cynicism. “I bet everyone gets bloody Juliet,” I scoff to myself, “no-one’s going to get the three witches, are they?”

I fill out some mundane questions, all the while smirking to myself. That’s right Charlotte, beat the system, fight the power, expose these lazy quizmakers and quiztakers for the fakes they really are, they only tell you what you want to hear …

“You are Ophelia, you are lonely and depressed,” Facebook proudly announces to everyone on my wall. Ah bugger!What about being compassionate, graceful and having porcelain features?! “I fought the machine and the machine won,” I sadly concede, consoling myself with the comforting ‘remove’ feature that Zuckerberg so gentlemanly designed. Hah. Charlotte 1 – Facebook 0.

Later on … email from work asking about an important assignment. I’m on it like Sonic. “… also Charlotte, this is how you appear in public …” a colleague kindly points out. A screen shot of “Charlotte is now using the Shakespearean ladies tool” is attached, making it seem not only like I am an uberloser who should be wearing Eeyore sweatshirts, but also like I re-quizmyself on a daily basis, just to check that I’m still (not) Juliet, and not, say, an earthy wet-nurse, or a truly unexpected result like “you are no lady, you are Falstaff/a lady but OF THE NIGHT” etc. It’s like when I was cast as one of the three kings and I wanted to be Mary. How do you hide these things from newsfeeds?!

This isn’t normally a problem for me. As far as talks of a ‘5 year plan’ go, I’ve always been pretty comfortable with my plan of maintained directionless mooching. But for probably the first time in my life, I actually forced myself to think about what I wanted to do. Paying £6,000+ just to doss around in my dressing gown does seem rather steep after all.

I began frantically rattling through some of the other options, searching for hidden vocations that might lead me on a steadier path. Perhaps I had a hidden talent for boat building and should apply to apprenticeships immediately, or go to the market and sell computers Alan Sugar style? Eventually I found my way to York, and I believe it worked out best for all concerned. Had I had to navigate my way through the minefield that is the newly released Browne Review, I’m not sure I’d have come to the same conclusion.

I’m not going to launch into a rant, because if we’re honest it’s a lot more complicated than that. The document itself is reasonably complex, and brings about so many serious issues, that it’s almost impossible to know where to start. How much is education worth? Does everybody need it? Will the exceptionally intelligent always rise to the top regardless? Are some courses worth more than others, and what will be the result of a ‘you get what you pay for’ higher education system?

For the first time this year, it seems like students passionately care about something, and it’s hugely invigorating. People are pissed off, people are protesting, and in my opinion it’s all overdue.

For too long now higher education has been in a state of limbo, with fees slowly creeping up, and the renowned English patience quietly wearing thinner and thinner.

Personally, I’ll be protesting against it. The report is presented linking payments directly to earnings, but this only superficially lessens the blow – make no mistake that under the proposed system there will be more debt amassed than ever before, and it’ll take years more to pay it back.

While this, the provisional bursaries, and funding to protect certain sectors such as the Sciences and Maths seem to make sense on paper, it’s all about perceived boundaries. Although previous UCAS statistics have suggested that fee rises have little impact on the amount of people applying to university, regardless of income, raising tuition costs even further may well be a step too far.

While provision has been set aside in the report for those from the lowest incomes, this doesn’t necessarily mean that people will make use of it. Taking on such a significant amount of debt in unstable times is a daunting prospect, and one which will surely alter the geography of higher education in England substantially.

A blanket system that penalizes the standard middle class student doesn’t seem like the logical way of resolving this.

You may well disagree, and that’s okay. In fact, it’s fantastic, because it means finally people are fighting for what their education means to them, and assessing the value of university in England.

For too long important questions on how our uni’s function in relation to others around the world have remained unanswered and undebated, and it’s time for that to change. Whether it’s political or personal, stand up for what you think, and make sure you’re part of a system you believe in.

“Is that everythin’ then?” she asks in a low pitched drone.

“And a bottle of Calpol please.” A wry, uncomfortable smile begins to spread across her face.

“Is that for yourself?” she goads. “Have you used this product before?”

I feel like I’m at some kind of AA meeting. “Errm, yes,” I reply, getting a little hot under the hoodie. “Yes, I have.”

“And would you like the over six or the infant suspension?” she smirks. “And do you like the strawberry or blackcurrant flavour? And is it the FAMILY pack you wanted?!”

It’s a step too far for a girl with a raging temperature, plague-ridden family, and an overwhelming desire not to miss The Inbetweeners.

“Yes. Please. The big bottle of Calpol. In the strawberry infant suspension. And I will be drinking it alllllll.”

-

Last day of holiday in Italy. Looking tanned, feeling linguistically invincible. In the past week I’ve booked a fishing trip, discussed a jellyfish infestation and come up with many reasons why I would not be participating in water aerobics. So far at the spa we have discussed beauty treatments, special offers, and what kind of aromatherapy oils my mum wants for her massage. I’m feeling pretty chuffed as we head off to the showers.

“And, um, possiamo avere un, um, un towel?” Our Italian masseuse looks perplexed. “Eh, um, you know a you know a *insert arm rubbing motion*”

“Eh, a massage?” our Italian lady helpfully proffers.

“No, ah, you just gave me one of those I mean a, um, a, you know a *insert horrendously embarrassing drying action, which at the time seemed to represent me toweling my back, but may have looked like some kind of spontaneous belly dancing performance. Ms. Italy and I awkwardly part ways, sans towel.

It had seemed, in theory, like a nifty, 30cm nip from shower to open dressing gown. My mother had already completed the maneouvre with Olympic-like finesse. However, the Laws of Fate are unkind, and on exiting the cubicle I narrowly miss, nakedly springing directly into Ms. Italy’s alarmed face. Queen of Oils snickers something in Italian which is once again beyond my reach. Think it was “you could have asked for a towel”. Really need to look that word up.

-

My birthday. I am a happy bunny. My housemates have bought me a wunderbar Birthday Dress to wear, and with my newly received Chatimal (Google it), I’m feeling like the bloody Paris Hilton of Heslington. Smooth. People are drinking, people are talking, people are kissing goodbye to my £300 deposit. After a couple of O’Renishi’s in town, it’s off to The New Club. “Happy Birthday to CHARLOTTE!” announces the DJ, and the crowd goes wiiiild. This is ACE.

Suddenly, I slip on the newly installed stage blocks and am catapulted onto the dance floor, in most undignified manner. It is a proper video game type fling 6ft up with nooo adoring fans to catch me.

-

York A+E, 11.00 the next day. “And you said you fell off a stage Miss Hogarth-Jones? Had you been consuming alcohol?”

“Um, well, yes I had had a bit, but I wasn’t actually drunk at all.” Belinda the nurse raises an eyebrow. “No, honestly, I promise.” Belinda lowers her eyes. “This form says it was your birthday last night … but you weren’t drinking …”

“No. Look, I can see how this would all point to the fact that I was drunk, but I wasn’t, I’m just clumsy,” I insist. Belinda clearly has me down as a lying hobag as she produces a small dish of giant pills. “Yuss,” I sigh, “those look really good.” Belinda’s eyebrows look like they’re about to fly off her forehead.

“Oh nonononono, I mean because my foot hurts! I mean for pain relief! I mean good for my FOOT!” I plead, as I hop along to the corridor, but it’s too late. Belinda has already absconded and I am left hopping to the X-ray room, meekly muttering about tap water and hoping not to be forcefully diverted to the psychiatric ward.

While it’s been interesting over the past week to look at how the council, local politicians, and general public seem to differ in their opinions of us, don’t be misled. For decades there’s been a Yorkshire man somewhere “oo ech-ing” about all the “ruddy students” under his breath, and that’s certainly not about to change any time soon.

And it’s easy to see why. More often than not, I think it’s fair to say that in all groups of society, it is the badly behaved minority who leave a lasting impression.

Students are no exception to this. Indeed, while there are hundreds of YUSU volunteers involved in valuable and largely unrecognised projects in the local community, nothing quite sticks in the mind like a small pool of studenty vomit on your doorstep.

It’s the easy option to sit here all doe-eyed, and to pretend that “we are golden” – that all students make house proud, charming neighbours who spend their time gaily reciting Wordsworth to each other, re-glossing their white picket fences, and silently studying late into the night by candelight.

But if we’re honest with ourselves, that just isn’t true in the majority of cases, is it? And we do need to confront this issue head on, because it’s not going away any time soon. Like it or not, some people in York don’t worship the ground we walk on, and it’s more productive, convenient, and just generally healthy if we can change this negative opinion of us.

Which, of course, is easier said then done. People are quick to place blame on YUSU, campaigns committee or the University, and yes, they could certainly be doing more to raise the positive profile of York students. But then, couldn’t you?

The general consensus at the moment seems to be a sort of ‘why don’t you LIKE me!’ type explosion a la Friends, which is basically completely useless. Repeatedly telling people how great we are and how much, in theory, they should love us, isn’t really a great plan. If anything, it comes across as pretty obnoxious.

There’s always been a huge focus on integrating different groups of students on campus, but our relations with the rest of the city beyond commercial interest seem too often overlooked. We need to start relating with our neighbours and the rest of the community on an individual level.

Although Ziggy’s on a Wednesday might suggest otherwise, we aren’t all socially inept degenerates. In fact, we aren’t half bad. What we are bad at, however, is communicating, and I’d even suggest that at times we’re as guilty of stereotyping our neighbors as they are of us.

I’m not saying we should all transform ourselves into Stepford Wives. There’s no need to start baking cherry pies and replacing all your practicals with neighbourhood watch stints, but perhaps a little more effort on our part wouldn’t go amiss.

In reality, it’s difficult to gauge what the general opinion of York students is. Local politicians tell you what you want to hear, and in general an honest opinion is hard to come by. But a bit more of an active effort, on both sides, is surely a step in the right direction.

The issue of York students and their relationship with the local community has quickly spiralled into hysteria, which isn’t at all helpful. A little more understanding, tolerance, and engagement from everyone is surely the simplest, most direct way to address a rapidly destructive issue.

The development, which is scheduled to cost around £11m, will contain a 4G pitch suitable for rugby, football, American football, hockey and Lacrosse, as well as an eight lane county competition standard swimming pool, a health and beauty spa and several dance studios. It is due to be completed by Easter 2012, and will be open to students as well as the general public.

Sam Asfahani, York Sport President, has stated that the development will “completely revolutionise sport at York”, highlighting that it will “not only improve the experience of existing members both in terms of our clubs and general membership, but it will also be a great advert for prospective students”.

Jon Greenwood, Director of Commercial Services, has also claimed that when completed, the village will be “bigger than David Lloyd” and “much cheaper”, despite admitting that the project was a “big thing” as “there’s nothing else on the site yet – there are no infrastructures”.

The 4G pitch exceeds many sports club’s expectations, who were sceptical that even a 3G pitch, one of Afahani’s leading policies in the YUSU elections last term, would ever be achieved at York.

“To be honest with you, I never thought we’d get one, but it’s so brilliant that we have”, commented lacrosse captain Phil Harrold. “We’ve played on a 4G pitch at a tournament in Amsterdam before and it’s incredible, it’s head over heels above the astro we have at the moment” he continued, adding that “last year we had so many games cancelled because the pitches were waterlogged, but the new pitch will mean we can finally play all year round”.

Plans for the location of the new swimming pool and York Sports Village. Construction is due to start this time next year

Conor Brennan, Captain of the first XI football team, also echoed Asfahani’s thoughts on the development, stating he hoped that “better training facilities might attract better players to the uni in the future” and that that was “the biggest positive for us”.

In addition to the 4G pitch and its separate changing rooms, the York Sports Village will contain several dancing and fitness studios available to clubs outside of peak times and with storage for equipment, as well as a high end health spa offering beauty treatments, a steam room, and sauna and jacuzzi facilities.

A 150 station fitness suite will be available to members only, but with discounted rates for students, and will be open to members of the current University gym, while the pool will be available to both members and ‘pay as you go’ users. It will be fitted as a 25m County competition standard pool with 8 lanes and starting blocks, not an Olympic one as has been suggested in the past. It will also house 120 seats to be able to accommodate galas and competitions.

“The development will completely revolutionise sport at York. It will not only improve the experience of existing members but it will also be a great advert for prospective students.”
Sam Asfahani, York Sport President

There are currently no plans for new courts to be built, which Rob Wadsworth, Sports and Recreations Manager for Commercial Services, said “could cause difficulties”, stating that “if people want to play badminton, they can’t – there are no new facilities for that kind of thing at the new place”.

Wadsworth also specified that Commercial Services “haven’t worked out how the village will integrate with York Sport yet”, but explained that predicted membership fees and provisional timetabling are already in the process of being drawn up.

When asked how he hoped York clubs would be able to use the new facilities, Asfahani told Nouse that he has “every faith that the good relationship between York Sport and Commerical Services will continue” and that together they will “ensure that the needs of all our clubs are met, assuring that the facilities are at the right specifications for as many of our clubs as possible”.

Ariel map showing the location for the new York Sports Village

Gold membership to the village is currently estimated at around £29 per month for students and £45 for the general public. This is substantially cheaper than the nearby David Lloyd gym, which currently charges around £55 per month and is used by roughly 1500 York students.

Silver membership, which will have limited use of the facilities and is for off-peak hours, is also estimated to cost students £20 a month and the general public £28.

Members of the current University Sports centre on campus will have access to the new Sports Village automatically included in their membership.

Wadsworth also revealed that the York City Knights were involved in talks with the University and would potentially be using the Sports Village for their official training. “They don’t want to invest in their own facilities” he said, “so they’re coming down to do a deal with us”.

Rugby President, Rory McGregor, expressed similar concerns of other sports Presidents, stating that although he didn’t “see any reason why local sporting clubs can’t benefit” from the new development, “University sports clubs should take priority”, stressing the importance that “timetabling shouldn’t lead to the disadvantage of York Sport”.

However, McGregor remains confident that Asfahani will deliver on his promise to push for the needs of York Sport, throughout the development of the project.

“He’s got enough experience and, having worked with him on the York Sport Committee last year, he has my full backing” stated McGregor. “His heart is in the right place.”

Official construction plans for the York Sprts Village showing a poolside cafe and coffee bar, beauty treatment rooms, Spinning studio, and small training pool, amongst other things

The £11m project comprises of numerous sponsors which have been somewhat controvertial.

The City of York council have given the University £3m towards the Village and as a result it will be open to the general public. Concerns have been raised over how much access York students will have to the facilities, with Greenwood stating that the council “want to be able to specify how many hours they’ll have available” and that there has been “no limit agreed” as of yet.

However, timetabling for the swimming pool is already under way. “Noone knew anything about programming pools” stated Greenwood, “so we signed it off to a company called Active Leisure who specialise in this kind of thing”.

A further £1m investment has been secured by the University through a government initiative, Sport England’s Sustainable Facilities Grant Funding. In march, Sport England announced a £10 million National Lottery funding round, Active Universities, which they stated would be “aimed at getting more university students playing sport”. Greenwood explained to Nouse that the York Sports Village will also be taking steps to promote Sport England’s various initiatives as a form of compensation for the investment.
­

“[It’s] bigger than David Lloyd and much cheaper.”
Jon Greenwood, Director of Commercial Services

The campaign for a swimming pool and new health club facilities on campus has been ongoing since the expansion of the University campus onto Heslington East.

The University originally outlined a timetable of 25 years till the project would reach fruition. However, after pressure from students and YUSU officers, many of whom made the pool a central feature of their election campaigns, the development has been prioritised and alternative sources of funding sought. The project proposal has also received strong support from the University Vice-Chancellor Brian Cantor.

The prospect of new sports facilities has proved popular among students. Jenny Mclaren, a third-year student, commented how she believed it was a “really worthwhile investment for the University”.

“The new plans look amazing,” she said. “Sports facilities on campus have always been really shoddy, so it is about time for something new and snazzy.

“My only regret is that I will have left by the time the pool and spa are built.”

There were almost 500 entries for the 2010 awards, which are now in their sixth year. York will compete against Birkbeck (University of London), Edge Hill University, Lancaster and Newcastle Universities in the ‘University of the Year’ category, which was won by Teeside University last year. The results will be announced at a ceremony in London on 25 November.

Speaking to Nouse, University Press Officer David Garner declined to speculate on York’s likelihood of winning their categories, but stated that the University are “extremely pleased to be shortlisted” and that they “look forward to hearing the results of the judges’ deliberations”.

Former ISA President Daria Pawlowska also commented on the ‘International Collaboration of the Year’ nomination, where York is competing against the University of Central Lancashire, Glasgow Caledonian University, King’s College London, the University of Huddersfield and the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine. Pawlowska stated that over the past year “there have been many focus and work groups created by the university, YUSU and the ISA to note all the needs such a multicultural environment has, and to help future integration between home and international students”. She continued to say that those involved have been “putting lots of enthusiasm and dedication into” the projects, and that “although many changes can’t be seen yet”, she is sure that they will become increasingly noticeable in the coming years.

Pawlowska also expressed her hope that “the integration of the ISA with our Students’ Union will be carried out successfully till the end, and prove useful for further cooperation between different student services caring for the internationalization at the University of York.”

York St. John have also received a nomination, for ‘Most Improved Student Experience’.

Ms Lawrence was a chef at Goodricke College, and was last seen in Heworth on 18 March 2009. At the height of the investigation, 100 officers were involved in the search for Ms Lawrence. The number has been gradually reduced during the past 16 months, with around 20 officers working on the case at the anniversary of her disappearance this year. At the end of this month only 16 officers will continue to work on the investigation, being reduced further to seven at the start of August.

Assistant Chief Constable for North Yorkshire police Tim Madgwick stated that “as leads are followed, investigated and actions completed”, the police are now in a position where “there is no longer a requirement for the level of resources allocated to the inquiry”.

Madgwick continued to say that the decision to reduce resources has been made by police after “several months of further review and scrutiny”, and that their “overriding desire is to bring the person or persons responsible for Claudia’s disappearance to justice”.

The investigation will continue to remain open, with a dedicated response team and phone number set up in place for any calls that may be received as a result of a Channel 4 documentary, due to be shown on 13 August.

Ms Lawrence’s family were fully informed of the changes to the investigation by the police, before details were released to the press. They were unavailable to comment at the time of writing.

Many students will have used Waverun during their time at York, by sending a text message containing the words “Waverun York” to 60777 on nights out in the city. Waverun then replies throughout the course of the evening with promotional offers for clubs, pubs and bars in York, such as queue jumps, reduced priced entry and drinks deals.

York student Joe Pearce started the business venture in 2008, and continues to run it on a daily basis. Speaking to Nouse he described Waverun as “a truly exciting project to get behind”. He continued to say that over the last two years “Waverun has grown from a pipe dream to a fully functioning enterprise”, estimating that the service is used by around 50 per cent of University of York students.

Waverun has taken the York entrepreneurs as far afield as Hong Kong, where they have recently represented the University in an international business competition. The service has already been used over 25,000 times in York since 2008, and was launched in Leeds last year.

Pearce also revealed that expansion is “already well underway in Sheffield, Nottingham and Huddersfield”, and stated that “Waverun’s potential for rapid expansion is phenomenal”, due to the fact that its website has been “built with expansion and evolution in mind”, in the York Press earlier this month.

He also stressed that those behind the venture are “incredibly grateful for all the support we have received in York”, claiming “without them none of this would have been possible”.

The business is in the running for Science And Technology Business Of The Year and Small Business Of The Year at The Press Business Awards, the results of which will be announced in mid-November.

Sadly however, it’s clear to me that this new suggestion is not very well thought out. I’ll admit that, like many students, I’m a little lacking when it comes to the deep, nitty gritty facts and figures of the treasury. So in doing research for this article, I’ve tried my hardest take in to account the arguments from both sides – but the more I’ve looked into things, the more it becomes obvious that the government haven’t done their homework properly.

On forums everywhere people have found problems and pitfalls, many of which have no obvious answer. For example, how do you define a “graduate”? If your lifelong ambition has always been to train as a vet in Newcastle and on graduation you bugger off to look after sheep in New Zealand, how is the government going to stop you? Are we all going to be trapped, forced to stay in the exotic surrounds of Slough until we’ve paid off every single penny? And who knows when that will be? The government doesn’t seem to have a particular time frame in mind –are these tax proposals for several years, or a lifelong financial burden?

I’m not against the idea in principle, but there are simply too many unanswered questions, and too many suggestions being tossed around at random. The thing that grates on me the most is the suggestion of different “prices” for different degrees. Charging science students much more than those doing other courses, for example, seems ridiculous. Limiting the amount of applicants for subjects such as the Sciences or Medicine will become a huge problem in the future. What our economy needs right now is to generate people who will generate wealth. The new proposals could make this problematic.

Though certain subjects require more equipment and contact hours, the government are vastly underestimating the effect of price on those applying for University, many already bewildered by the prospect of taking on three (or two if the government have their way) years of costs, however they will be paid.

Would you have done the course that you’re doing now, if there was a cheaper option available? Or ask yourself how you’d feel if your degree was one of the “cheap” ones. Would you be so keen to apply knowing that your course cost the same as others you had dismissed as useless?

Some of you are probably shaking your heads now, muttering and getting very Victorian gentleman about the whole thing. You are confident that your degree is the one for you, and nothing that the government can do or say will persuade you otherwise. But, I fear, you are in the minority. While there may be too many courses on offer at the moment, staggering fees will almost certainly cause a polarization of students to a number of subjects, and these which won’t necessarily produce the graduates that progressive society demands.

A recession will always generate new thinking, and perhaps how we view and pay for University at the moment does need looking at. However, these new proposals smack of a group of MPs dying to make their mark in their new positions, at the expense of the education system. Whilst I’m sure many of you can, and will answer the questions above, it doesn’t seem to be something that the government themselves have managed to do at present. Maybe you could give them a hand.

According to that most trustworthy of publications, the Mirror, gung-ho Gaz is said to have brought: “a can of lager, some chicken, a mobile phone and something to keep warm” with him to gunman Raoul Moat. I find three out of four of these items reasonable wrisible, especially the lager. If there’s one thing a mentally unstable gunman on the loose probably doesn’t need, I’d assume it’s a cheeky pint and a packet of pork scratchings.
Anyway, my point is that whilst much of Gazza’s well-intentioned, super special rescue kit seems a little suspect, the chicken, I would argue, was spot on. Now sadly the Mirror has been a tad miserly on the details here, and us readers are left in suspense – no-one knows if the chicken was fried, battered, mousselined or fricasseed (I assume the first, if only for ease when travelling), but it is of no importance. Gazza’s paltry snack offering (get it?!), was spot on.

Food has, and always will be, a tremendous bridge builder. I’ve read numerous saucy articles recently (get it again?!), preaching the virtues of melted praline in hard to reach crevices, and to quote a 90 year old woman from my post office the other day “I’m fed up of reading about food and sex!”. While it’s a topic worthy of discussion (see previous post Sex and Souffle for more…), I’d say that the main reason I love food, is that it transcends all that for something more useful, and maybe important.

For example ever been on, or had, a really bad French exchange? You know the kind, the one where your petit ami turns out to be into piercings, sulking and keeping out of direct sunlight, and you’re starting to wonder whether hitchhiking back from the Dordoigne would be safer than staying with the host family’s cross-eyed dad for another 10 days? In these kinds of grim situation, food is more than a staple, but a saviour.

Oui mes enfants, sharing the last, squished pain au chocolat with Clement or Laeticia often says more than “ou est le piscine?” or “j’aime bien le discotheque” ever could. Indeed, I’d even go so far as to venture that sucking up some mouth-watering, delicious spaghetti from a shared plate Lady and The Tramp stylie, can be infinitely preferable to either the awkward-turtle silence, or hysterical ramblings of many a mis-matched dinner companion.

I could easily go on about this forever, coming from a family which views food as literally the cure for everything (luckily no-one in our house is, as yet, obese). I will forever be known to my housemates as the girl who was unable to offer any words of comfort at all to my sobbing, emotionally traumatized chum in first-year, and instead proffered a cheesecake a timely two hours later. And I’m happy to say that it worked. As did the three chicken spicy Efes on several other upsetting evenings.

With this in mind, I really do think Gazza was on to something, something that maybe deserves a lot more serious consideration than given here. Whilst I’m sure that we’ve all turned to food for comfort at least once in our lives, the ability of it to join and connect people from different backgrounds, races or religions is extraordinary, and not something which I think is truly appreciated yet by the British. With that in mind, I’m off to offer my dad a pint and a bowl of Kettle Chips, because I shouted at him earlier for scratching my car. He took the paint off and everything…

*By the way, my dad has read over my shoulder and piped up that that joke doesn’t work at all, as apparently Terry Wogan is also quite good at football. As I don’t know many other footballers, and the ones I do know I can’t think of funny jokes (less Ashley Cole more Cheryl etc.) I’m just going to pretend he never said anything and stride on regardless.