What even is May Week? Is that, like, a thing?
Well, yes, it is most definitely a thing and it can be probably be interpreted in two manners by the general public. Let me demonstrate:
Model A (aka the Nerd Model):
May Week is the time of the year when hard-working Cambridge students drag their pale, exam-wartened skin out of their little bookish hovels, where they have been living in retreat amongst Shakespeare and Quantum Mechanics, and finally attempt the unthinkable: partying. Pathetically enough, the poor little socially inept studymonkeys are so embroiled in odd impractical traditions that this period of festivities takes place in June, not May, and lasts little more than a week (they can’t stomach the party). They’re probably still living in some sort of Druidesque adaptation of the Julian calendar, or, perhaps, they just lose track of time. In either case, they all gather together, travel down rivers on punts and drink Pimms in little suits dreaming of the Knowledge Nirvana.
Model B: (aka the Daily Mail Model):
May Week is the time of year when privileged little rich kids, who have been given all the opportunities they could possibly need in life and were probably spoon-fed Pythagoras by a Ph.D-qualified Belarusian nanny from the age of six months, do what privileged little rich kids do best: go to insanely expensive Balls, squander their brains in the soap of Bacchanalian alcoholic excess and burn 50 pound notes in the face of peasants.
....
Both of these models are, however, ever so slightly exaggerated. Most Cambridge students are actually really quite intelligent (surprisingly enough) and work hard at their exams. Moreover, quite a lot of them do manage to retain functional social skills and participate in society at an acceptable level. Most Cambridge students aren’t actually rich kids. Yes, there are a few. And some of them are outrageous prats. But some of them are kind of nice, actually. It’s often reassuring to realize that people with posh accents have the same hopes, sense of humour and fears, and it’s entertaining to hear them swear in their crisp tones. (Somehow “You’re an absolute cuntish whore!” sounds so much nicer in a posh voice). In any case, quite a lot of us Cambridge students are dirt poor! We just choose to squander governmental loans on pleasure and YOUTHFULNESS. What a ridiculous thing for a student to do, right? How dare the young indulge in fun? Fun is for the weak!
Anyway, in order to give an insight into a non-stereotypical May Week (well, apart from the fact that lots of money was squandered), I will now proceed to tell of my adventures. And I will describe it DAY BY DAY, just to make it extra-tedious! Enjoy, my dear readers!
Tuesday, 11 June (May Week -3):
First day of freedom, pre-May Week, and the sun has arrived. I met up with my strong, tall Italian friend who says beautiful things, makes good coffee and once danced with me to reggae music in Churchill College library at 3am with a lampshade on his head. He said lots of beautiful things (as to be expected), asked meaningful questions and took me to this wood I never knew existed, where I lay on his lap, stared through the trees at a colourful sunset and realized that everything was glorious. Then I went back to my room, read a little book of poems and lyrics by Leonard Cohen and disconnected myself from the real world to set up a hammock in his throat, vibrating joyously with each line. It was a good beginning.
Wednesday, 12 June (May Week -2): Spectrum #1: Jessie J and the bad Wingman
May Week still hasn’t officially started by this stage, but if you are finished your exams, which most people are, there are quite a lot of parties. I decided to go to the only gay student club night in Cambridge: ‘Spectrum’ in a place called, surprisingly enough, ‘The Place’, where everybody knows everybody else and they play lots of cheesy music: suitably amazing for drunken gymnastics. It is full of groups of happy friends with slightly too sexual dance moves and quite a few hormonal Freshers, who have just discovered the glories of university freedom and try their best to snog a stranger, which, of course, they do. Very often. Very, very often, in fact. But no bother: It’s always fun to discover a particularly passionate homosexual kiss in the back of your standard facebook photos of someone pulling a face and another person imitating Gangnam moves.
On this particular night, I was playing my usual oblivious role: I have very bad gaydar and an almost non-existent sense of flirtation. As a result, I danced happily and spasmodically to terrible music, focusing on nothing but the bliss of my loose limbs. This was very fun. However, a little bit counterproductive to my friendship with A.. My beautiful accomplice had recruited me as her ‘wingman’, which essentially meant that I was supposed to find her a pretty young maid for the smoochin’. I tried my best, but I wasn’t very good, at all. I couldn’t smell the lesbian in the air. Nonetheless, I introduced her to Poppy: a tattooed, black-haired woman with beautiful curves, red lipstick and a very sly smile. The conversation went something like this:
Me: This is Poppy. I hear she’s one of those lesbians.
Poppy: Yeah, I’m not actually gay though. I just like gays.
Me: What, not even for Jessie J?!
Poppy: No, I’m more of a Dita von Teese kind of girl.
Poppy’s ‘hot’ female friend, who looked a bit like Jessie J: I’m gay! This is my fag hag! *sly wink*
Me: Let’s go, A., she doesn’t fancy you, because you don’t look like Jessie J.
It was only afterwards that I appreciated that:
a) It’s a very bad wingman who pulls his friend away from a potential mate
b) I have an obsession with Jessie J
c) I am a mean drunk, and I need to stop telling people they don’t look like Jessie J. It’s very offensive.
Fortunately, the next day I realized my stupidity and apologized to A. We shugged (a hug that also involves a tender leg embrace) and laughed about Jessie J. It was beautiful.
Thursday, 13 June (May Week -1): The Night of the Cake Robbery
The Rainbow Ball: an event organized every year by the Cambridge University LGBT+ society, which claims to be something like a Ball, but is actually more like a cocktail party in a dark saloon with some live music and lots of finger food and overpriced drinks. And it ends much too early. It’s still pretty fun, though.
I met up with another of my beautiful friends, C., and we slowly drank wine, embracing regularly and talking about the exams. Watching my friends, I had noticed how everybody was slowly losing their mind and so I just assumed that she had too. C. was a little annoyed at the fact that I had been messaging her regularly asking whether she was having a breakdown. She was actually having a great time. She was doing jigsaws, learning about viruses and smoking marijuana. A pretty good set-up, really.
We arrived at the cocktail party. I danced spasmodically once more, drank too much and retreated to the bathroom, where I sat staring at the walls and thinking sensible Presbyterian thoughts:
‘Things are spinning too much. This is dangerous. You should really be sensible. What are you doing to your body? YOU ARE POLLUTING YOUR PRECIOUS VEINS, YOU DIRTY DRUNKEN SWINE.’
Pushing my Ian Paisley alter-ego to one side, I then went outside to where my friends were smoking. We sat on the pavement and soon friendly strangers rode past on a bicycle and gave us a free bottle of wine. We were almost thrown out of the cocktail party as the bouncer seemed to think C. had been hiding it up her skirt the whole time. An unlikely scenario, given that she had been dancing for quite a while and the wine seemed like it was chilled. Who puts chilled wine against their jingly janglies? That’s just absurd!
In any case, we soon exacted our revenge. C. spotted a lonesome cake on the table. She looked in her handbag, noticed it was the perfect size for storing the cake and slyly slipped it right in. She cycled home, with great drunken prudence, and managed to keep the cake perfectly intact. Four days later, when I came to her house, I noticed she still hadn’t eaten it. She doesn’t even like cake. She just loved the thrill of the robbery. I guess you can’t steal your cake and eat it too.
I also met a friendly Russian, peed in Jesus College and got hit on by a large, posh lad in black tie who called me ‘a very striking young man’. It was pleasant to hear, but disconcerting in its source.
Friday, 14th June:
On this day we all got UV paint on our faces (I looked like Joker from Batman with my luscious yellow lips) and went to a cheesy school disco. It was kind of hard to wash off and I had fluorescent eyebrows for many days.
Saturday 15th June: The day I hoovered and discussed Quenza
My poet friend, Z., came around for a few drinks. We sat on the ‘mild humps’ of Churchill College’s grassy plains and talked about life and THINGS. It was beautiful. We invented a new word: Quenza -- rape of the mind, but not the body. When you have theoretically consensual sex i.e. you do not resist physically, but your mind is protesting against it and afterwards you feel dirty and betrayed.
After discussing the tragic cases of Quenza we had both lived through, we then retreated to my bedroom, where we lit candles and incense against college regulations, talked in more hippy tones and then decided to vacuum at 2 am. We took a hoover each, played motown as loud as we possibly could and vaccuumed to the Gods. May Week: the only time when you can make noise in Cambridge and no one gives a jolly roger. Not even the studious international engineers who you only see in fresher’s week and graduation. Even they are probably shit-faced behind the bike sheds.
Sunday 16th June: Suicide Sunday
This day is the biggest drinking day in Cambridge, where everybody is expected to celebrate the fact that none of their friends or acquaintances has committed suicide due to the stress of exams. There are lots of garden parties with watered down drinks and weird jelly wrestling. I decided to rebel against the system and sleep all day, occasionally stretching like a cat and eating nibbles on all fours. Miaoooooow, bitches, miaoooow.
Wednesday 19th June: Garden Party and Spectrum #2
I skipped a few days, but basically they only consisted of me discussing life, veganism and suffering with my brother, going to the Russian Embassy for a visa, enjoyably watching bad television and eating cashew nuts with an ex-flame and getting really frustrated at Londoners and their busy lives.
On this day, I watched my beautiful friend, C. sing amazingly (as always), wrote a poem about humidity (I love that sweaty pits can be an inspiration for creativity), retreated to my room to sit in the dark for a few hours and then later went back to the gay club night, where we all danced like hamsters on crack. There are many photos of me looking like a wriggling Kafkaesque beetle on a sofa. I hope I washed afterwards. I bet people had intercourse on those cushions.
Thursday 20th June: The Summer Solstice is Coming!
I went to the Erasmus Society Garden Party, which basically consisted of sitting under a marquee on a horribly rainy day, stealing the left-over free drinks, chatting shite to Northern Irish people and eating strawberries. It was pretty amazing.
I spent the rest of the day on Russian facebook (vkontakte), talking to gays in Krasnodar and using them as an excuse to improve my Russian and do ‘dissertation research’ all at once. Suddenly I realized it was 3am and the sun was about to rise on the longest day of the year. I decided that I really ought to wake up my hippiest friend, K.. She wouldn’t want to miss out on a druid sunrise.
I knocked frantically on her door. She woke up disorientated and unable to find the light. Nonetheless, within a few seconds she was enthusiastically bounding downstairs to watch the sunrise. She likes hippy stuff. It makes her tingle. It makes me tingle, too. We are a beautiful match.
We sat on the mild humps of Churchill, talked about life and parents and how to live. I was wearing her fake fur hippy coat, which only reached half way down my arms, a dirty bed sheet and obnoxious orange slippers, designed like clogs. I didn’t think I would be seen by anyone. We drank the stolen alcohol. But it was raining, and there was no sun, and no moon.
Nonetheless, we decided it was the perfect time to walk halfway across Cambridge dressed like homeless people. We woke Z. up at 5am, walked into his bedroom, ate some hummus, drank whisky and fell asleep on one pillow, all of us cuddled up like little kittens.
In the morning we awoke to discover Z. had formed stonehenge from books, accurately based on a photo. It was sort of magical. They were good books, too: Burroughs, and Ginsberg, and some wise Indian man. It wasn’t too painful to dissemble. It would have been much worse if he had have made stonehenge out of copies of Mein Kampf and Cilla Black’s autobiography.
I walked home, at midday, dressed like a crackhead. The elderly looked at me with wide eyes: some bemused, some frightened. Then I slept.
Friday 21st June: I don’t even remember. I was probably rocking back and forth in a hungover corner, reading Sylvia Plath, writing bad poetry and hysterically crying into a jar of mustard. Or maybe I was sleeping.
Saturday 22nd June: Ode to the Snail
Sidney Sussex Arts Fesitval: an Arts Festival that wasn’t too bad, but proper expensive. So I snuck in without paying, instead. The security was awful. And I know a Maths student from Sidney Sussex College who doesn’t even like “art” (“I mean, I kind of get it, but a lot of it’s just all a bit shite, really”), but was willing to be my accomplice.
I attended a lecture on the history of the college (don’t remember a thing), listened to music and got free vegetarian hog roast. I also attended a reading competition, where I sat alone and absorbed lots of voices taking sonnets and prose awfully seriously, including a poem about a snail. Some of them were really quite good, though. One of them even had a beautiful deep New England voice with a kind of s-trill which made me felt like I had entered a strange, but pleasant alternate reality. I know it’s silly, but after never having talked to Americans properly for the first 18 years of my life, I still find it hard to believe they actually speak like that. I mean, it’s nice and interesting, but surely, isn’t that just a voice you put on for TV? Maybe I’ll marry an American one day and we’ll live in California and re-enact the plot line of A Single Man by Christopher Isherwood, and I’ll become a cynical British professor, mourning the loss of his lover in the Pacific heat, and everybody will think my accent is strange and I am the one who speaks like he is on TV. Or maybe I’ll end up selling my body on the streets of Ulaanbaatar, screaming for another fix of Opium and playing chess with my imaginary lovers. Life is full of possibilities.
But I digress. After the Arts festival, we had a end of the year hummus-based get-together of a few good friends. We ate hummus, listened to Chocolate Rain, watched awful Harry Potter fan fiction, discussed the pros and cons of having erotic times with different types of food (Along the lines of: “Custard would be great for sex”, “No, I think I would prefer to lick a tuna sandwich off my lover” etc.) and then decided to improvise a rendition of ‘The Edge of Glory’. A. played the guitar and sang in soft tones, I screeched the high notes and my mathematician did the low notes. It sounded like a beautiful, special, wonderful, once-in-a-lifetime car accident.
Sunday 23 June: Can’t remember. Probably more Sylvia Plath and crying in corners.
Monday, 24 June: Fraternal Pole Dancing
May Week had already ended by this stage and most of my friends had tragically left (unfortunately I’ll be moving to Russia next year and they will all graduate without me), but I still could allow myself one more night of fun. After all, I’d soon be going back to rural Northern Ireland, where there’s about as much chance of a good night out as there is of being raped by a Bonobo in Buckinghamshire.
I had to go to London to collect my visa. So I tottered on to the overpriced Cambridge-London train and picked up my visa. Then I sat in a noisy Arab cafe for a while, reading a book about gays in Russia (I felt so subversive. Reading about gays in the midst of people, who come from a culture that ain’t down with that sort of thing. But really, it was a very boring, bourgeois afternoon.) I met up with my two brothers and a man from Tobago. He bought us lots of drinks and showed us a video of a cat performing cunnilingus on a tuna-smeared woman. It was one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever seen. Please, don’t google that. It’s probably not legal. And you will get arrested. And, let’s face it, would you not rather get arrested for something cool, like whistleblowing or protesting in Istanbul, rather than having your name smeared with a reputation for kitty porn? Just sayin’.
In any case, things escalated quickly, and somehow I ended up in a really empty bar on a Monday night, which had two slippery poles on platforms in the middle of the dance floor. I ended up pole-dancing with my brother, a South African and a friendly Italian woman, who later made me salad. Her English wasn’t very good, but she did know the phrase ‘once you go black, you never go back’ and thoroughly agreed with the sentiment of the sentence.
We also got kicked out of another bar, because we decided to read the bouncer’s copy of ‘How to Get Abs in 4 Hours’. It was really quite annoying, because we were at least 10 minutes into being buff and bulging with muscles. But he didn’t like us touching his baby.
We walked home singing Minnie Riperton and then I fell asleep in a spare bed in my brother’s hostel, lost my glasses for about an hour and sat, upset and blind, in reception listening to them discuss bed linen. It was enlightening.
Tuesday: Sleep again. Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Wednesday, 26 June: National Yurt Day!
I said goodbye to one of my dearest friends on this day. She gave me a souvenir of a Mongolian yurt within a yurt within a yurt. It came from Kazakhstan and I will cherish it dearly. I’ve always wanted a yurt (mainly so I can keep saying the word: yurt, yurt, yurt, yurt, hurdy gurdy it’s a yurty) and I will miss her deeply.
I also packed frantically, sending everything hope in boxes and suitcases in the post, and trying my best to keep myself so busy that I wouldn’t grow too nostalgic about leaving Cambridge, after 2 beautiful years. I only cried once: when I handed over my bike to my Italian friend. I’d been through difficulties with my bike, but I loved him nonetheless. It was like that scene in the film Matilda, where the mother signs over her daughter to another women:
I never did understand you, bike, but maybe he’ll love you the way I never could. Take care. Farewell. Go forth and multiply!
Cheesy conclusion:
So, there ya go. My expensive May Week, which, despite involving absolutely no balls or expensive parties, drained me of all my cash and has left me destitute at my parents’ house: reading books, drinking coffee and dreaming of the future. It has been a beautiful, challenging year, and I am glad it ended in such a pleasant way. Next year, after exams, things will probably be much more boring: I’ll go to the zoo by myself, stare at some lemurs indulging in Quenza and eat hummus, thinking of all the Cambridge beauties I miss. Maybe I’ll steal a cake, too.
