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a dark corner for some privacy. Bing bang bong.”
    “You’re pure filth,” said Anne (an ex-girlfriend from when I was twelve, now studying Socio-Bio-Dance Studies with History at some uni up north), twirling her vodka and Coke. I was with her on this one, though slightly impressed. Rob shrugged and eyed up his next shot.
    “That’s not what your mum said,” he muttered as he smashed the cue ball. “You’re just jealous.”
    “Not really. I had my fair share of pulls this past year thank you very much,” boasted Anne before breaking out in a blush.
    “Did you get fingered up the shitter though?” asked John (a blond pretty boy, studying Applied Agriculture with Media Studies at some university down south).
    “No, I did not! You lot are disgusting. I just had a lot of pulls is all.”
    “Well done,” I said sarcastically.
    “You can shut up, posh boy,” replied Anne. “Just because everyone’s asexual at Oxford … too busy being butt-ugly and nerds.” The rest of the group chuckled. I never have a comeback for this kind of dig. I tend to keep quiet, knowing that a response of any form would be deemed snobbish or elitist.
    “Eliot’s pussy-whipped by Lucy,” suggested Natalie (huge girl, studying Golf Course Management and Experimental PE at some university out east). Ouch: that one was pretty harsh.
    “Anyway,” I said in a dragged-out voice. “You need to be careful, Rob, you’ll be riddled with STIs before you know it.”
    “Uh-uh, no problems there, bro. I had one of those tests, didn’t I.” We were all slightly taken aback; I mean that’s pretty organized and responsible for Rob. Maybe university was changing him … maybe he was growing up. “I shit you not. They shove like a fob mathingy up your jap’s eye.” Anne, who is half Japanese, doesn’t even flinch at this. “It’s like an ice-cream stick. And I’m not talking Mini Milk … I’m talking Magnum.” Everyone gasped with wonderment, the boys squirming in addition.
    I wanted to say something about Rochester’s “common fucking posts” and “tingling cunts,” or Thomas Nashe’s “one eye wherein the rheum so fervently doth rain” … and what about Herzog going to the doctor thinking he’s got clap: “
What have you been up to? Are you married?
” Instead I tried to be funny and said, “Those tests should be like an MOT: annual, and with a little record book for all future purchasers.”
    “Do you reckon I could take out insurance on my knob?” asked Rob with touching seriousness.
    “You definitely wouldn’t maintain your no-claims bonus,” said Anne.
    “Well, I gave someone a rim-job in a club at uni,” announced Holly out of nowhere (tiny girl, studying Fuck Knows at some university near Wales). A rapid-fire of chokes and splutters exploded down the line, splashing into an assortment of drinks. That’s a bit much, even for us. I found myself transfixed by her teeth and upper lip …
    “Serious?”
    “Of course not! You’re such a bunch of douches.”
    We sipped our drinks, mildly disappointed.
    “I knew she was joking,” said Rob (I’ve no idea what Rob studies: perhaps a BA in Throwing Up, or a short course on The Reception of STIs in the Period 2006–9. I’m sure he’s told me at some point, but I can’t have been listening). He missed his next shot.
    “You’re shit,” said John, his opponent.
    I had switched off, thinking about Lucy and how we’d done well to keep things aloft all through that first year; wondering how it would go once she started uni and I got further into my studies. I didn’t have anything to say to anyone around me, and longed for my Oxford acquaintances who understood me better; which is exactly how I had felt in Oxford all through my first year, longing to return to my home-mates who, I had convinced myself, understood me better.
    “Your mum’s shit.”
    “Cock.” That was Jack. He’s just seen Terrence walk into the King’s Arms. Terrence and Co.