Put A Soc In It!: Romance Society

Hoping to find love this week...

We all apply to Cambridge for its academic reputation, but there are also other important things to consider. I’d always intended to graduate with more than just a respectable degree – I want to leave Cambridge with a future husband too.

Three years in, however, and I’m yet to find my Prince Charming. As graduation looms, the remaining time to find ‘the one’ is running out at an alarming rate. Each week, my hopeful parents pose the same question on the phone – “So, have you met anyone interesting yet?” – and I think even my enduringly optimistic mother is starting to lose hope that her dream of a son-in-law who has made an appearance on University Challenge will be fulfilled.

But I’m not giving up just yet. Lured by promises of free chocolates and roses, I created an online profile with the Romance Society, hoping to inject fresh impetus into my hunt for the ideal man. I outlined my modest expectations – a true gentleman who will treat me like a princess, and nothing less – and signed up for a speed dating evening to optimise my chances. With twenty-two men taking part, I was feeling quietly confident that tonight would be my lucky night.

Each eligible bachelor had three minutes in which to impress me before the next suitor took his place. In the meantime, we could make notes on a person’s merits (or shortcomings) and put a ring around those who showed promise. At the end of the night our notes were collected so that ‘Cupid’ could subsequently share the details of those who expressed a reciprocated interest, allowing them to make arrangements for a follow-up date.

Admittedly, with some people the conversation had dried up entirely by the time we reached the end of our allocated slot, and we found ourselves sipping wine and nibbling cheese straws in an attempt to make the situation less awkward. I suppose it would be somewhat optimistic to expect to hit it off with every single person though – not to mention the taxing process of organising follow-up dates with all twenty-two of them…

Fortunately, with others, the three minutes flew by, and I felt like I had barely got to know them before the bell rang for us to change over again. That said, I suppose retaining a certain intrigue and curiosity is the whole point of the evening. Provided that I suitably impressed them, there were certainly a few Romeos I would be delighted to get to know better on another occasion.

Given the Romance Society’s impressive track record – at least fourteen couples have got married after meeting through the society – I think I might finally be making a breakthrough. I can’t promise that my mother’s dream of a University Challenge champion will ever be realised, but my experience of speed dating proved that there is a fascinating variety of single people in Cambridge. Surely that must mean that Mr. Right is out there somewhere?

Put A Soc In It!: Hot Yoga

This week I got hot and sweaty with the yoga society...

It’s getting cold in Cambridge. As my fingers freeze to my handlebars and my nose turns purple on my cycle ride to lectures each morning, I could think of nothing better than some searing sunshine to perk me up.

So when I heard that there were classes of hot yoga available in Cambridge, I signed up without hesitation. An hour and a half of 105 degree heat! Bliss! Removing layer upon layer of woolly jumpers and donning ‘minimal, cool clothing’ in accordance with the rubric, I couldn’t get to class quickly enough.

When I arrived, the speedo-clad instructor gently told me that, since this was my first time, my main challenge would be just to stay in the room for the full ninety minutes. Pah! I thought – that was precisely what I’d come for! I unrolled my mat directly underneath a glowing heat lamp and embraced the sensation of growing warmth that was suffusing my formerly goose-pimpled body.

Five minutes in, I found myself dripping with sweat and gazing longingly at the frosty conditions outside. The instructor noticed I was struggling. “Bring your focus to the room, to your practice, to your being,” he cooed. Although inside I was dreaming of diving into the frozen-over Cam, I tried to outwardly project a vision of zen as we worked our way through the series of twenty-six postures and focus on the benefits that twisting myself into all sorts of bizarre shapes promised to bring: detoxification, increased vitality and mental clarity, weight loss, and reduced stress – all of which assume a greater effect in high temperatures, so I’m told.

The next sequence involved the delicate balancing act of standing on one foot and holding the other leg high in the air. I looked around the room to see how the others were coping and caught sight of a gorgeously toned man wearing only a pair of shorts, his biceps glistening with sweat, a vision of masculine strength in this posture…

I toppled over. “Focus on yourself alone,” the instructor said softly. “The body betrays the mind’s thoughts. Clear it of clutter, and you will balance better.” No chance of me stealing another glance of those beautiful biceps then, unless I was to risk another embarrassing tumble.

Attempting to close off thoughts of my classmate’s physical attributes and instead put my mind and body through each systematic movement, I began to feel more at ease with the heat, the postures, and myself. The instructor gently told us that we could leave the room when we wished, and whilst earlier on I would have made a run for the door given the opportunity, I stayed lying on the ground a while longer, reluctant to let back in all that “mind clutter” that I had cleared and face the cold reality of the outside world again.

I remembered that gorgeous man on the nearby mat, thinking I would be happy to make an exception and welcome him into my “mind clutter”. But when I saw my beetroot-red face, soggy t-shirt and frizzy hair post-class, I abandoned any hope that he would be willing to do the same. I’d learned my lesson: yoga is a personal experience. It’s about focusing on your own practice and becoming more at ease with yourself, so that you can give your mind and body some well-earned time off. Beautiful as he was, I had to respect my classmate’s right to do that too. Not that that will stop me going back for another class…

Put A Soc In It!: Cheese Society

A pun-gent post this week...

My experience of a new society this week was absolutely legendairy. Brie-liant, in fact. I had emmenthal amounts of work to do, and it was really starting to get my goat. Ricotta put an end to this, I thought – it’s putting my parmesanity to the test. Roquefortunately, I found a camembetter way to pass my evening.

A Cheese Society is a quince-essentially Cambridge concept: spending the evening in mature company and discussing fraiche ideas is what has earned the institution a reputation for paneering research and inspiring formaggionation.

Despite having stiltons of work to do, I was getting truly cheesed off and my thoughts were beginning to curdle. So to spare myself from going crackers, I took some time off to pursue an activity more suited to my tastes: sampling a variety of fine cheeses.

I arrived feeling lactotally starving, but had to hole-d off from launching in straight awhey so that the President of the Cheese Society could wax lyrical about the different varieties on offer.

First up was a yarg, which, he hallouminated us, has a texture that changes the deeper you delve into the cheese, from creamy under the rind to a crumbly centre, which is rather pungentle and therefore ewe chutneed to handle it Caerphilly.

Before I had a chance to feel blue about this cheese running out, a new one was produced: Lanark Blue, an unpasteurised ewes’ milk cheese which, he assured us, was utterly grate. The maker nose his stuff, it seems – the cheese is hand-made and hand-moulded, and it is one of the first blue ewe’s milk cheeses to be produced since the Middle Ages.

By this point I was feeling rather full, but I was determined to wedge in some more. Cote Hill Yellow, an unpasteurised cows’ milk cheese, has won numerous awards, and judging by the cries of “Holy cow!” and “Gordon rennet!” that my companions were buttering, I was expecting it to be fontinastic  – and let me tell ewe, it was pretty edam delicious.

I feta not try any more, I thought, but the next one looked too gouda to resist. Rind you, port was now being served, and woe is brie, I couldn’t manage both. Quel fromage. My only gorgonzolation was that the society already has plans for another tasting evening in the cheddiary. “Will you gruyere?”asked the President. “I’d be quarking mad to miss it,” I replied. “It’s a Wensleydate,” he smiled. “Don’t you pecorino it,” I answered. I just mozzareally hope it won’t be mascarpostponed…

Put A Soc In It!: Bobbin Lace-Making

We’re nearing the mid-point of term, and attempting to weave my way in and out of various strands of thought from essay to essay is tying my brain up in knots.

So for a spot of respite this week, I decided to swap these abstract threads for some real ones – threads that, with the help of the Bobbin Lace-Making Society, I could feasibly intertwine to create a thing of beauty.

An exquisite lace creation is like a first-class essay: it deftly weaves together all these various threads in a coherent manner, never stumbling, never veering off course, never going back on itself, and finishes off with a neat conclusion. While we agonise for hours on end in the library, trying to make sense of the subject at hand, the lace-making experience is one of comparative serenity.

To begin with, if you follow the instructions then you won’t go wrong. There are no alternative theories to throw you off course; just a prescribed pattern that works every time. Running out of inspiration is never an issue either: you just pick up another bobbin, begin a new thread and carry on. There’s even a plentiful supply of shortbread to keep you going if you start to yawn while you yarn – this is strenuous work, after all.
 

Everyone needs an activity that allows us to switch off for a while, to help disentangle the various ideas spinning around in our minds. As I worked my way through half stitches, cloth stitches, twists (and for those feeling ambitious, the cloth stitch AND twist, an almighty amalgamation of the two), I could happily disengage my brain and let methodical movements take over…with only the occasional pinprick to remind me where I was going. And at the end of it all, I was left with a delightful bookmark, without the sweat and toil that goes into academic work. What had begun as a collection of diverse threads had come together to form a beautiful creation. If only essay-writing were that straightforward.

A word of warning, however: lace-making is addictive. Once you’ve started a pattern, you wouldn’t want to give up half way through it, would you? Nevertheless, I find it can complement work rather nicely. I’m currently occupied with a collection of bookmarks so that I won’t lose my place in any of the books I’m referring to in my current essay. I’m convinced that the peace of mind that results from my lace-making will be conducive to a more coherent piece of writing. And if the essay ever does become too mind-boggling, these bookmarks will serve as a neat little reminder of how best to unravel my confused thoughts: just do some more lace-making. Admittedly, I’ve only written two paragraphs so far – but we wouldn’t want it to become incoherent now, would we? It’s time to start another bookmark before I attempt the third, I reckon.

Put A Soc In It!: Clay Pigeon Shooting

This week's escapades - online here.

Stress busters. I’ve tried them all. From lavender bath salts to meditative yoga to compulsive chocolate digestive eating, I’m yet to find the ideal solution.

After being set an essay that threatened to ruin my weekend, desperate times called for desperate measures. Mere stress busting would not do: I needed something that would smash it to smithereens. It was time to call in the clay pigeon shooting club to help me let off a considerable amount of steam.

Lest it be feared that I’m a potential threat to my fellow students, I can assure you that everything was monitored and controlled by excellent coaches, who provided an in-depth safety talk before letting us anywhere near the weapons. Once outside, I was first to have a go. Let me tell you, those guns are powerful machines, and not to be underestimated. I heaved it up on my shoulder, waited for my target to be released, pulled the trigger – and missed by a mile. “Oh, but it feels good, doesn’t it?” the coach said with a grin. A few pathetic attempts later, I finally hit one. My stress had been blown to pieces, and what was left of it lay scattered across the field in front of us. “Atta girl!” the coach called out, giving me a mighty pat on the back.

I took a break to allow others to get their thrills, and noticed my cheek getting sore. One of the more experienced shooters explained that I probably wasn’t “cuddling” my gun properly. I never thought I would hear the words “cuddle” and “gun” in the same sentence, but there you go. On my next turn I clutched the gun close into my cheek and took aim – only to be stopped by my coach to correct my posture. The best stance is, apparently, sticking out your bottom and leaning slightly forward. Not the most ladylike of positions, I’ll admit, but since I hit considerably more targets this time round, it was a concession I was more than happy to make.

Having sorted out my stance, there were certain technical tricks that would also help me. I’m no physics whizz kid, and the thought of calculating the precise point to shoot so that you don’t miss the moving target was enough to get my brain thoroughly muddled. “You’re over-complicating things, my dear,” the coach reassured me. The trick is – so I’m told – to shoot just slightly ahead of the target, so that it will fly into the shot and meet its bitter end.

Imagining the clay pigeon that was now flying across the sky, oblivious to the shot that would soon blast it apart, was in fact that horrible supervisor who had set me the unwelcome essay, I followed the coach’s instructions. As it collided with the shot I had fired and showered down in fragments, I felt a sense of cruel gratification. When I got back to college I still had to write the essay. But I nevertheless smirked with satisfaction knowing, in my mind at least, that I’d taken my revenge.

Put A Soc In It!: Trampolining

My latest exploits can be read about here...

Having established last week that watery depths don’t exactly float my boat, this week I took on the opposite extreme: the dizzying heights of trampolining.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t quite anticipated the preparation my body would require in order to withstand two hours of being bounced in every direction imaginable. Having got a little carried away with the G&Ts the night before, I arrived to the class with my head already spinning, and ten minutes in I was forced to remember what I’d sworn to forget: the kebab I had consumed in the early hours of the morning was threatening to make a rogue reappearance.

Noticing that I had turned a shade of green, our coach took the opportune moment to suggest I let someone else have their turn while he explained to me the secrets of avoiding unwelcome ‘giddy spells’ Thinking it best not to mention that takeaway binges probably aren’t top of the list, I listened attentively. On my next turn, I even pulled off a ‘seat drop’; as one of those ladies who likes the extra cream with their pudding, I had no trouble allowing the weight of my rear end to propel me downwards. After a few attempts I had the move nailed, and the coach looked reasonably impressed.

Now it was time to move on to more ambitious territory. A ‘front drop’ was proffered, but, given my rather delicate state, I asked whether there might be something a little less tough on the tummy. We settled on a ‘back drop’ instead: all I needed to do was jump as high as possible then lean my shoulders back, and I would float gently down to a lying position on the bed. Or something like that.

It might sound crazy, but soon I was actually beginning to enjoy the feeling of flying up and falling back down, only to spring back and repeat it all over again. With each turn I dared bounce that little bit harder, shoot my arms that little bit higher, fall back that little bit further…

Then something staggering happened. The coach told me to repeat exactly the same move, only lean backwards a bit more. Taking him at his word, I bounced back up and, by some flabbergasting gravitational feat, spun all the way around to land on my feet again. I couldn’t tell you how on earth it happened, but I somehow did a somersault. My fellow flyers (one of whom studies quantum mechanics) could probably explain the ins and outs of the gravitational forces that spun me round, but I’d rather not know, lest it lose its magic. Once I’ve retrieved my stomach from the ceiling and the room has stopped spinning, I can’t wait to make the magic happen again.

Put A Soc In It!: Water Polo

My latest instalment! Can be read on the Varsity website here.

I love Sundays. Given the chaotic pace of life at Cambridge, I afford myself the luxury of taking the day at a blissfully slow pace: a long lie-in, catching up on trashy TV, reading the newspapers, enjoying a relaxed roast dinner.

Not so, it seems, for members of the University Water Polo Squad, who sacrifice these
pleasures in favour of a morning of training in the swimming pool. Dragging myself out of bed and lamenting the omnipresence of closed curtains in the rooms of my fellow students, I prepared myself to join in their exploits last weekend.

Things didn’t get off to a winning start. Having not swum since my secondary school days (I prefer to lounge poolside, darling), I had entirely overlooked my lack of suitable attire for pool-based activities. I asked my neighbour’s impartial advice as to whether I could just about get away with one of my less skimpy ensembles, but the response being negative, I was forced to forgo breakfast and make a last-minute dash to John Lewis to scour its swimwear section for something more appropriate. I left the store with a hideously unflattering but positively practical costume, and cycled like the clappers to the sports centre.

I arrived in the nick of time, already red-faced and sweaty, only to discover that today the Varsity team trials were taking place. The captain, seeing the look of horror on my face, reassured me that there would be no pressure and we would take things easy. “Just twenty or so lengths to start off with, girls – no biggie,” she beamed. Half-way through my first, I was ready to faint with hunger, my legs had turned to jelly, and I had unintentionally swallowed copious amounts of water. With much coughing and spluttering, I reverted to doggy paddle. “Don’t worry – your technique’s great!” she reassured me, as I huffed and puffed my way to the shallow end. “It takes a while to get back into the swing of things – you should have seen me when I got back to training after the vac!” Something tells me she was anything but the pathetic paddler I was, longing for the comfort of my floats, woggles and – dare I say it? – armbands.

You see, water polo is played in deep water, and, to add further complication to matters,
involves a very specific style of treading water called ‘egg-beater’, the ins and outs of which got me thoroughly scrambled. Keeping afloat is only part of the battle – there are various manoeuvres, passes, catches and goals to execute, as well as warding off opponents’ attempts to ‘dunk’ you (thankfully, existing team members promised not to submit me to that treatment just yet, though I was given a bonnet with some rather hefty ear protectors to wear in case of any rough play…).

I never thought I would last the whole session, let alone see myself playing a game at the
end of it, but somehow the team’s infectious enthusiasm won me over. My legs might have only been capable of a gentle swish rather than the mighty egg-beating of my teammates, but I managed a couple of passes and even a shot on goal (easily saved, but, as the perpetually smiley captain pointed out, “at least it was on target!”). I returned home with a runny nose, dripping hair and bloodshot eyes, and savoured every last morsel of my roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. As my friends showed up in hall bleary-eyed, I felt a sneaky sense of pride for having spent my morning engaging in such hard-wearing activity whilst they slept off last night’s beers. Though next time, I won’t skip the Weetabix beforehand.

Put A Soc In It!: Lindy Hopping

It's the start of a new academic year, and I'll be writing a weekly blog for Varsity about my various undertakings with different societies in Cambridge. Here's the first instalment (or you can view it online):

New year, new start. Beginning term at Cambridge brings with it a fresh set of resolutions: no more late night takeaway binges, changing the sheets at least every other week, finding a new hobby. Off we trot to the Freshers’ Fair, where we are lured by the enticing array of free chocolates and the endearing eagerness of society representatives, only to return to an inbox filled with details of the next yacht expedition, cheese tasting, or Warhammer tournament.

As an arts student, my technical ineptitude has meant that for the first two years of my degree I still haven’t figured out how to unsubscribe from such emails. Each term, the regular stream of updates from the multitude of societies our University has to offer only served to continually remind me of my inadequacy. So this year, I have resolved to make a real effort and have a go at some of the more under-the-radar activities offered by societies at Cambridge. Provided I don’t unearth hidden talents for which the pursuit allows little time for anything but practice, I’ve agreed to write a blog of my various experiences for Varsity. Who knows, in a few weeks’ time you might well be reading the words of a burgeoning champion pole-vaulter.

My mission began with an evening spent in the company of Cambridge’s Lindy Hoppers, involving an hour-long class followed by an evening of ‘social dancing’, accompanied by a live band. Fortunately the class caters to beginners’ needs, and the emphasis tended more towards having fun than perfecting the steps (or so one of my partners told me, perhaps to make me feel better about my rather haphazard footwork). Fortunately we changed partners regularly, so I didn’t have to feel too bad about my lack of co-ordination impeding the more ambitious dancers in the bunch. It did make for somewhat clammy hand-holds though, which I could have done without when it was my turn to dance with a very cute guy with flippy hair…

Admittedly, I didn’t exactly pick up the moves at lightning speed. In fact, I trod on the aforementioned guy’s toes a number of times, although on the rare occasion that I looked up from my somewhat unsteady feet he seemed to be smiling – and I’d like to think it wasn’t just a sympathetic gesture. In fact, while my technical dancing ability might have been a little lacking, I feel I certainly excelled at the ‘social dancing’ aspect of the evening. The class took place at a pub, and after a couple of pints to calm the nerves I was throwing some absolute killer moves. Flippy hair hottie even asked if I would be coming back next week, so I must have made some sort of impression.

If I were to dismiss the attraction of my fellow Hoppers, however, I’ll confess that I doubt a career in Lindy Hopping is my calling – somehow my knees don’t quite have the buoyancy required for all the bouncing, and my feet just don’t do what I want them to. But I had a good laugh, met some fun people, and would recommend it to anyone who wants to have a bit of a boogie in a non-judgmental, friendly atmosphere. What with the partner changes, live band, and dance moves, it could be an interesting alternative to your standard swap night out. One thing’s for sure: despite all the dance steps, it was a lot less sweaty than most nightclubs in Cambridge.

The Tux Redux

BOOM! My latest article for Varsity:

As we enter the throes of exam term, and find ourselves consumed by the necessity to prioritise revision over such tempting distractions as shopping for dresses, May Week might seem like a somewhat distant event. And yet, with only a few weeks until the balls commence, the need to settle sartorial choices is becoming an increasingly imminent concern. With so much to do before the big night and so little time on our hands in which to prepare, why can’t there be a fail-safe, quick-fix option amid this commotion? Fortunately there’s a black-and-white solution: ladies, let’s initiate a tux redux.

If, like me, you’ve spent this term in a library-bound stupor, relying on custard creams for sustenance and rarely exposing yourself to sunlight, your body might not be looking as honed as a traditional dress demands. Mercifully, the forgiving cut, ample pasty limb coverage and satisfactory tummy concealment of the tux provides a flattering answer to any revision-induced bodily neglect.

Moreover, the tux is endlessly practical. Ever since Yves Saint Laurent inaugurated ‘Le Smoking’ in the sixties, it’s been a timeless classic; a sensible yet sexy investment piece guaranteed to turn heads. Opting for a tux virtually neutralises every girl’s worst nightmare: the possibility of someone else turning up in the same dress. Instead, on an evening when Cambridge’s finest will doubtlessly seek to outdo each other in the sartorial stakes, the tux outsmarts the very notion of ‘dressing to impress’, oozing sophistication by virtue of its sheer simplicity.

Yves Saint Laurent’s iconic original ‘Le Smoking’, Bianca Jagger’s wedding suit, Helmut Newton’s version of striking androgyny for French Vogue in 1975

For those who are planning on some serious Suicide Sunday antics, the tux is definitely the way forward. Quickly throw it on, add a coat of red lipstick and a stroke of black eyeliner, and you can rush from garden party to ball in no time, leaving the other girls hobbling behind in their painfully impractical stilettos.

What’s more, freed from the constraints of a close-fitting dress, the prospect of an unsightly food baby will become a distant worry, whilst dance-induced sweats and early-morning chilliness can be averted by slipping your jacket on and off. Devoid of awkward skimpiness, the tux is also the perfect solution for letting go on the dancefloor, jumping into punts, and even negotiating the bouncy castle.

Even if such antics aren’t your thing, the tux nevertheless epitomises grown-up glamour. It suggests individuality, confidence and independence: another attraction if commitment to your studies this term has left you without a date for the evening. And yet, the suit is supremely sexy – we need only look to its recent red-carpet treatment at the hands of Kate Moss, Dita von Teese and Rihanna and commend their savvy decisions to eschew exhibitionist ensembles in favour of an elegant tailored look.

Kate Moss and Dita von Teese: effortless tailored chic and sexy sartorial glamour

Considering its practicality, functionality and timeless appeal, I’m convinced that suiting up is a definite tuxe-do for May Week. Without the worry of choosing the dress for the occasion, Google Nanny’s enforced regulation of my procrastinating perusal of ASOS dresses can get stuffed. Successfully suited and booted, I can forget about May Week Chic and get on with some productive revision instead – although I’m still yet to find the perfect bow tie…

is the BBC failing the country?

Another shameless post of a Varsity review, folks. Enjoy.

On the day I was due to attend a lavish black tie dinner with the speakers of this week’s Union debate, I received an email from Varsity asking whether I felt that my Union membership fees were being squandered on unnecessary extravagances. Although I was paying for the privilege, the number of invited guests and the liberal dispensation of wine certainly gave me pause for thought. Nevertheless, the new Union committee were quick to assure me that copious alcohol would engender a much livelier debate with more forthright speakers, and swiftly refilled my glass.

Having finished our handmade petit fours, we were whisked into the chamber and treated to an utterly engaging and at times outrageously witty debate. Outgoing Union president James Counsell opened the proposition’s argument that the BBC is failing the nation by citing several recent news articles guilty of ideological bias, and Theology student Sophie Lloyd responded with a solid defence of the BBC’s creativity and diversity. Roger Alton, executive editor of The Times, admitted that the BBC’s blithe complacency probably should be brought to check, although relying on stalwart favourites such as Bargain Hunt and copying ITV’s hit reality shows has admittedly been a successful formula thus far.

A rather disgruntled Jon Sopel, who felt his evening could have been better spent reporting on Alan Johnson’s resignation rather than speaking to a room of non-licence fee-paying students, undermined the proposition’s criticisms by quoting Alton’s hypocritically glorious praise of BBC news coverage whilst editor of The Observer. Despite Alton’s embarrassment, perhaps the biggest loser of the evening was the unfortunate timekeeper, whose desk-tapping efforts to halt the lengthy speeches of History of Art student Tom Davenport and Peter Bazalgette were met with amusing hand caresses and the gentle assurance, “Don’t be frightened, just relax and we’ll get through this together.”

By the end of the evening both sides had done exactly that – it was the witty exchanges between the opponents, rather than their convincing arguments, that were the highlight of the debate. And as I no doubt joined several other students in catching up on iPlayer’s latest offerings back in college, I realised that the BBC can’t be doing that bad a job after all.

Ohhh Varsityyy, how I love theeee

Varsity published another article of mine! Boo yeah they did. Exciting stuff!

A FRESH START

THE CHEERLEADER

2, 4, 6, 8…such a sequence would, in the Cambridge environment, probably generate numerous mathematical formulae, musical measures, rhythmic constructions or genetic formulations.

In this atmosphere of academia, where hard-nosed intellect reigns supreme, the last thing one would ascribe to this series would be something as frivolous as cheerleading.

After all, isn’t cheerleading is the quintessential pastime of American high-school dumb blondes, where foolish chanting and ridiculous dancing are flaunted in an inane attempt to impress mindless jocks? Surely Cambridge undergraduates, hand-picked for their first-rate intelligence, have far better things to do with their time than ponce about with pom-poms?

Apparently not. For a number of years now, a daring faction of radical students has been meeting twice a week to engage in such audacious activities. Their membership has been growing at an alarming rate and, if their success in recent competitions is anything to go by, they are a force to be reckoned with. They call themselves the Cambridge Cougars, and they can be found on the prowl at several sporting events in the city, ready to pounce on their innocent, unassuming prey.

Perhaps it was their infectious smiles, their boundless energy or their dazzling outfits, but within days of joining the University, I too had joined the dark side. Before I could even “Give you a ‘Why’” I was throwing High Vs, jumping herkies, catching cradles and donning spankies as part of the Cambridge University cheerleading squad. It was, like, totally awesome.

But any prior assumptions I had of cheerleading being an undemanding, lightweight activity were immediately backflipped away. I was plunged into high-impact stunts, tumbles and dance sequences that demanded infinite reserves of energy and unlimited stores of strength. I was placed in a stunt team in which one false move meant the collapse of our unsettlingly trustful ‘flyer’. And when I asked about the pom poms, I was met with the sardonic reply, “Real cheerleaders don’t use pom poms.”

What, then, had I let myself in for? An hour into my first training session, having been expected to produce multiple jumps, hold complicated balances and display unnatural flexibility, I realised that cheerleading is anything but the sport of hysterical teenage girls. It requires absolute commitment and dedication, and maximum levels of fitness coupled with spirit and determination. Being a cheerleader is hard work – but I love it.

So, boys, next time you ogle at the group of girls supporting your team from the sidelines, remember that cheerleaders are more than just eye candy. It might look like we’re flaunting our skills, but a huge amount of work has gone into that performance – we’ve just perfected the art of making it look effortless.

YAY YAY YAAAAY WOOPDIWOOP EEEEEEE ATTA GIRL

I realise I am posting in a frenzy of excitement that I will no doubt regret with hindsight. However, I have had an article go up on Varsity Online, which is Cambridge's student newspaper! You can read it here, or if you can't be bothered to click on the link, I've even taken the liberty of copying it for you below. How terribly exciting!

THIS BEAST OF A BUG

It’s 8am on a Tuesday morning, and as I grope around trying to silence my alarm clock, the all-too familiar aftermath of a freshers’ night out begins to set in.

As I prise open my eyes, drag myself out of bed and open the curtains, I suddenly realise: I didn’t even go out last night. Why, then, am I feeling so horrendous? A strong dose of Olbas Oil eventually brings me to consciousness: this isn’t a hangover. This is freshers’ flu.

Everyone’s heard stories about it, and everyone knows that it’ll catch them someday. But despite that, I’d embarked on student life convinced that it wouldn’t get me. Oh, how wrong I was.

Fighting the urge to retreat back into bed, wrap myself up in my duvet and wallow in self-pity, I eventually drag myself to my morning lecture, where it is evident that this beast of a bug has claimed several other victims. The study of In Memoriam is paired with a constant commentary of sniffing and spluttering, and I leave wondering if a similar elegy might soon be written for me.

Nevertheless, bolstered by a double dose of Sudafed and armed with a jumbo pack of man-size Kleenex, I soldier on, determined to make it to my afternoon supervision. Despite a short cycle ride inducing a near-lethal coughing fit and my voice sounding like a misplaced baritone, by the end of the day, buzzing on caffeine-enhanced Lemsip Max, I’m beginning to feel a little better.

Perhaps, then, it wasn’t the horror of flu that had overcome me. Maybe it was the inevitable consequence of my room’s prehistoric central heating system? Could it be that the slightly suspect out-of-date milk I’ve been pouring on my cereal each morning was the cause of my stomach’s unease? Off to bed I go, confident that, come morning, I’ll be back to my former self.

Alas, my hopes are in vain. I wake up – or rather, the piercing sunlight steals through a crack in my curtains and thrusts itself upon me in cruel derision – feeling like death incarnate. The already unbearable pounding in my head is intensified by a rapidly amplifying drone of ESSAY-DEADLINE-LOOMING that no amount of Beechams’ All-in-One can quell. There’s nothing for it but to go for it head(ache)-on and work through the pain.

Three boxes of tissues, six strips of Strepsils and a pot of vapour rub later, the essay is finished and the grim feelings of wretchedness are miraculously beginning to ease. Over the next few days I gradually regain the use of my sluggish limbs, my voice makes a welcome return to its natural register, and the capacity for nasal inhalation is blissfully restored.

I venture out of my hibernation nest and into the lecture site, and as the days pass, the chorus of coughing gradually subsides, and the atmosphere of contagion lingers with a somewhat subdued sense of doom. That is, until the heating in the lecture block breaks down…