This week in awkward: on Friday morning it emerged that every single student and member of staff in a Mechanical Engineering lecture had worn the exact same outfit to class. Our fashion editor rushed to the Queen’s building to report on an emerging sartorial catastrophe.
The Whip was met with a scene that beggared belief. James Bellevue, 2nd year, had sprinted up to the front of the Lecture Theatre and had taken to the podium. He was ready to preach fire and brimstone to his colleagues.
“I. Have. Had it. I cannot fucking believe you all. Especially you Stephen. This is classic you.”
He paused, gathering himself.
“You knew how fucking nervous I was for Fluid Mechanics in TB2. I told you TWO WEEKS AGO that this was my look for week one. I thought our friendship was a place where I could vent, where I could be honest, a place where I didn’t look over my shoulder to see knives glinting in the dark.
You had time to go Topman, go Mountain Warehouse, to go get that unique drip. But noooo, no, you had to copy my coat-tails didn’t you. Stop. Hanging. On. Stop. Being. Gauche.
And no, I’m not playing fucking Catan with you ever again.”
James wheeled around to point at another bespectacled classmate wearing the same blood-orange sweater.
“And you, Mark. You knew when A/W 18 dropped that that colour way was me all over. You said so yourself—
Mark looked confused. “No I didn’t. We’ve never talked about—
James shut him down. Slay!
“—Don’t for a second think to interrupt my expertise with your arrogance. You said, ‘James, you’re a king, this is your crown. Coronate yourself.’ On you — on you that hoodie’s a violence. Weight in all the wrong places. If you want to wear it, lose ten pounds. No — twenty. Yeah, skip the gym, just cut off your head. Decapitation-chic might suit you. Change that D&D character name to Sir Cumference, King.”
James spat a hot gob of spit straight onto Mark’s glasses.
“What did Wilde say? Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery? WELL, OSCAR, you never had twenty-five studs sashaying down the lecture theatre steps in YOUR fit; threatening to push you into dread obscurity. I’m just speaking my truth with caps lock left on, hun.”
With that, James stalked out of the lecture theatre muttering about “retail therapy”. He was later seen flexing a box-fresh Jack Daniel’s t-shirt, cargo pant cut-offs and a pair of Karrimor walking boots worn a la mode – without socks.