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Let's move to where the drunk 19-year-olds are all sons of barons! This week: Cambridge

What’s it about?

It’s not the one with the Bullingdon Club, it’s the one with the twat who burned £20 in front of a homeless man: Cambridge is the place to be if you want posh, superior dickheads everywhere but don’t quite have the stomach for Oxford.

Alternately packed with vile, obnoxious students – they’re not all rich, but they all know they’re better than you – and loud, obnoxious tourists, fight your way down the world’s narrowest pavements for a watery ice-cream and a gawp at some old shit.

Any good points?

Cambridge fosters many of society’s future culturemakers, so you’ll have ample chances to witness the next generation’s most prestigious actors, writers and musicians at the ADC Theatre. Or at least the ones whose parents are prestigious actors, writers and musicians.

If you’re yearning for something more authentic, stroll down King’s Parade and you’ll be treated to a wide range of street performers, from buskers singing Oasis to buskers singing Ed fucking Sheeran to a man outside Boots shouting that you’re going to hell. The grassroots of the arts is flourishing.

Wonderful landscape?

Take in all of the beauty and history of the university buildings, dating back up to eight centuries. Marvel at the students flitting in and out of them while you’re not allowed. Allow yourself no little resentment about this, especially as your taxes subsidise them and they wouldn’t even grant you an interview when you were 18.

That should take a couple of hours, then you will be free to stare at the miles and miles of surrounding entirely featureless countryside. Like flat fields? And a horizon that’s about 400 yards away? Because that’s what fenland is.

Hang out at…

Take in the city with a traditional punting tour; traditional in the centuries-old Cambridge custom of rinsing tourists for cash. You’ll spend an hour crashing into alternate banks of the most congested bit of the river if you punt yourself, or alternatively joining the traffic while an adolescent guide shouts his script about stuff you can’t see between arguments with other inadequate and/or pissed punters.

Hungry? Weave through pickpockets and wasps for a snack from the market, or return at 2am, lightly shitfaced, for a grease-dripping nightmare at the establishment known by students as ‘the van of death’. If you’re strapped for cash but still have some pride to burn through, enjoy a DIY dessert by harassing the free sample man outside the fudge shop.

Where to buy?

You think you can afford to buy in central Cambridge? Where a three-bed terrace costs £650,000? Yeah fuck off. Getting on the property ladder is hard enough when you’re not getting gazumped by a university college still blindingly rich off their cash from Henry VIII.

Going further out? Most of that land’s being bought out by tech companies building fancy business campuses. Convince Microsoft you’re an AI and maybe you can doss down in a data centre.

From the streets:

Donna Sheridan, aged 19: “I was worried that, coming from York, I’d feel out of place here if everyone was all snooty old money and that. But they don’t even bother talking to me long enough to be snobby, because with my accent they just assume I’m kitchen staff.”

Norman Steele, aged 62: “I’m not a student and actually live here. I’m considered worse than vermin, as my family has been for six generations.”

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Five sexual experiences to say you've had, with the Mash sex columnist

THERE are sexual experiences which are desirable and attainable, like orgasms, a finger up the arse during climax or getting a blowjob from a ghost. 

And then there are sexual experiences that, like Glastonbury, you want not to enjoy but to boast about. To tick them off your sexual bucket list before your fanny becomes worn and abrasive or your cock needs blue diamond scaffolding.

So next time everyone’s pissed at the dinner party and chat turns to bumping uglies, slip in references to these sordid acts to imply you’ve had a sex life worth living:

Sex with a stranger

How can you have a sexually realised self if you’ve never had a mild STD from someone you’ve never seen again? YOLO, you know? So it’s imperative you risk being murdered by a theoretical serial killer so he can demonstrate to you, either with his home furnishings or his cock, why he’s single. If the sex is so mindblowing that it haunts you forever, overshadowing all further lovemaking, you’ve fucked up. Either way: tick.

All the bondage shit

Ironically deeply vanilla after Fifty Shades, everyone’s got to do the chains-and-leather ballache these days. I know. Time is short, energy is low, the kids find the spreader bar. And in my experience, men either hit too hard, apologise after every stroke or are way too into being treated as lowly worms. Just do 20 minutes with a dressing gown cord acting as bondage and blindfold and be done with it: memories in the bank.

Shagging in public

For fuck’s sake. As if eating alfresco wasn’t pain in the arse enough. But public sex is something every couple has to claim they’ve ruined an afternoon trying to have. Personally I go to a National Trust, which keeps out the riffraff, though you’ll soon find that sharp-eyed children can see his wood through the trees, bushes are spikey and insects are even less pleasant close up than a 42-year-old’s ballbag. Also, the idea of being caught is less hot and more genuinely worrying.

Threesome

‘Sure, I’ve had a threesome.’ Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? But in your wank fantasies, you naturally imagine yourself the star of the show. Would that be the case? Or would you be the odd one out like in the playground, watching a shag happen and trying to resist going on your phone? And what if your third party is strange in all the wrong ways? Just fucking say you’ve done it. You can’t answer questions because you’re protecting Emily Atack’s privacy. Whoops.

Romance winning the day

Romance stops where oral starts, frankly, but every prick has a sex story where romance wins through. They passionately rutted through a tropical storm with rain pattering on their buttocks and realised she was The One. Piss off, it’s not a competition. Anyway, one couple’s post-safari sunset fuck is another’s quick missionary with a single rose in a vase by the bed. A talent for misremembering can be a great help. Also useful: drinking.

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