BLOODY STUDENT

Fly up? Check. Food on face? Check. Stray snots? Check.
Thus, with pretended elegance and great aplomb I delivered my paper at the medieval conference. As I whittled on, I saw some brows furrow in an attempt to grasp what the hell I was going on about, but after twenty minutes these was an appreciative applause. Phew, I had got through it. As one representative of the University of Geneva said: “I liked that book you gave us in twenty minutes!” Okay so I packed a lot in, but it was worth it, when else would I be in a position to address my peers and seniors in such a dramatic background as Oxford? Even the frolicking Lincoln university students could not hamper our collective spirit of erudite playfulness. Even working in such close affiliation with Trinity representatives didn’t seem to matter. It was all a big back-slapping wine-sipping academic love-in, and I was lubed up to the nines. The event degenerated into a faux-sophis drinking session, carrying ten pizza’s from Pizza hut back to the co-organisers apartment, which just so happened to be a former crash-pad of none other than Billy Shakespeare. He was a guy what wrote some plays and stuff.
We polluted the ghostly magnificence of the place with improper table manners and our teaching of the C-word to a Dutch student. I realised I was edging towards the Oxford profanity of debasing the 500-year old majesty of the town with my presence.
Just like a bloody student.
Aw well, more lube anyone?