Olivia James

Olivia James

The black clouds of inequality rained hard last week in Tunisia, where it is reported that a 19 year old woman has been forcibly admitted into a psychiatric hospital. Her crime? Fraternising with the concept of female liberation in a culture which still abhorrently belies the rights of women, prohibiting their equal existence alongside the men of their country and circumscribing them to rigidly defined codes of conduct. Amina, apparently inspired by members of Femen (the 'radical' Ukranian feminist organisation notorious for their utilisation of bare breasts to fight for their beliefs) posted a series of topless photographs on the Internet with statements such as, ‘My Body is My Own and Not the Source of Anyone's Honour’ written across them in Arabic.

I must have had some seriously good karma coming my way last week. Just when I was starting to feel really shitty and unfulfilled without a man in my life, Cosmo published this little gem: ‘How to Bag your Perfect Man in 5 Easy Steps’.

The headings were all in pink too!!!

On your average University Sunday morning, when one finds oneself fully clothed, viciously embracing a close friend, whilst screaming for your housemates to help you end it all, the traditional protocol is to wedge oneself in the crease of the sofa with a selection of takeaway menus littered around your fatigued carcass. On this occasion, so inspired were we, having awoken in yet another platonic spoon, that (still sofa-wedged, takeaway-laden) we decided to delve into the foreign realms of online chatrooms; I, motivated by a journalistic quest for discovery, obviously. My friends, motivated by a desperate quest to get laid.  

Once in a blue moon, an example of journalistic genius will be published. This literary sensation will ignite the fires of inspiration so ferociously within your loins, until it’s all you can do not to drop your pants, jump backwards over the Edward Boyle turnstiles, and gyrate home in your new found state of knowledge and understanding.

Call me old fashioned, but I’ve long championed the idea that relationships at University are much like a monster breakfast on a hangover. While satisfying at first, they are both inevitably followed by nausea, submission to the foetal position and declarations of life-long abstinence.


Hey gals, guess what? Bad news I’m afraid. Apparently next time you have one too many VK’s down at the Union Bar and end up spewing all over guy-with-bad-breath-from-your-medieval-literature-module, you’re not just accepting a fate of notoriety within the English school. You’re actually also saying “hey babe, I know I haven’t given you a second look all night but you know what, I’m really gagging for a shag…how about we do it here, on this badly lit, secluded park bench. I might act a little nervous or even pass out half way through, but ignore all that. I know I’m paralytic, but trust me, I want you”.

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