Dear Agony Aunt,

I recently had what some might call a "mare". After finishing my exams I consumed one too many jaeger bombs in da club. I subsequently passed out in the club, my head rested on the toilet. To my horror, I woke up at 10am the next morning with a devilsh hangover. When stumbling out of the club that morning, my supervisor happened to walk by. He look slightly bemused, and for good reason. The imprint of the toilet seat on which my head rested was very evident. I don't know if I will be able to handle the shame of seeing him for future supervisions. What do I do?

Dear fresher,

I bet you think you’re a right nutter. I bet you say your friends call you the ‘crazy one’. I bet you’re insufferably proud of your venture to the other side of the tracks. You love it, like everyone else you’re chasing the aesthetic of the vulnerable fuck-up who’s always top value. So you’ll probably relish your supervision, and your supervisor will eye you with the suspicion you’ve always craved throughout school, when you were invariably top of the class and revised 12 hours a day for your A levels, because that’s what everyone here did and no one is truly a wreckhead, otherwise they wouldn’t be here. So yeah, enjoy your Effie moment, you crazy cat. It won’t last – but you’ll think back on it fondly from your boardroom office when you’re a top QC.

Salve,

Agony Aunt

Dear Agony Aunt,

Yesterday I decided to eat 586 different macaroons but soon felt ill. I fear it is because my stomach is too small. Am I a physiological failure? Am I too weak to continue in this pressurised and difficult world?

Dear Glutton,

That depends on whether you mean Macaroons (the coconut variety as favoured in English teashops, covered in chocolate) or in fact Macarons: the light French patisserie favourite. If you could specify which in your next letter, I can then proceed with your enquiry.

Best wishes,

An unimpressed Agony Aunt. 

Dear Agony Aunt,

I was viciously 'fraped' the other day by one of my close friends, who for the purpose of this story I shall call Derek. Derek logged onto my facebook account and messaged one of the "cool" girls from the year above in my senior school. Derek suggested, to said female, that she should go and have an STD examination by virtue of our previous 'sexual encounters'. The girl quickly cottoned onto the fact that it was not me sending such messages. However, the more cunning and evil part of the 'frape' came when Derek said he chose to message her because I had made it out to seem as if I had told all of my university friends that she was indeed my ex-girlfriend and that we had a sustained relationship. The girl has since blocked me on Facebook. I am trying to exact revenge on Derek. Please help me in my endeavours.

Dear Friend,

It sounds to me as though Derek was just being considerate: in the STD world, the courteous thing to do is inform all your previous sexual partners of any diseases with which you have found yourself riddled. Chances are, you probably did give her Chlamydia – its rife these days – so all in all Derek did you a favour by doing the horribly awkward dirty work for you. As for revenge, you could try passing him an STD, which would round things off nicely. Gonorrhea an underrated one, see if you can procure a vial of that from your local GP. Lovely.

Best,

Agony Aunt

Dear Agony Uncle,

I am a fervent Socialist, I believe in equality to my core. Yet something troubles me late at night, it makes me toss and turn in my sleep – I need socialism. And yet... and yet. Something plagues my deepest-held beliefs– I love White tie, champagne (preferably Pol Roger, not that I’m being picky), top hats, cane and of course my dear pocket watch. Dear Agony Uncle, how dear God am I supposed to reconcile the two. I feel like I’m living a double life. Dressed in my fine attire, feeling like the Viceroy of Cambridge. All I hope for is that my colleagues at the Marxist Society do not see me being such a vicious traitor.

Dear Unconventional,

May I remind you that the widely accepted form for letters is to address your correspondent in the first line; you however, have decided to insert your line of address in a rather singular position, two sentences from the end. There is no place for exoticism in epistolary convention. I am similarly unconvinced by your use of ellipsis, your taste in champagne and your enthusiasm for impractical horological instruments. In addition, I take great objection to you even remotely ‘feeling like the Viceroy of Cambridge’. That Her Majesty the Queen should appoint you to rule Cambridge in her name and as her representative is about as likely as a beetroot and a turnip jointly winning a Nobel Prize for a break-through in Quantum chromodynamics. Also, Cambridge is emphatically not a viceroyalty, but a duchy. May I suggest you revise your heraldic terminology and reconsider your life choices.

Yours faithfully,

Agony Uncle

Dear Agony Uncle,

I think it must be due to austerity: the cash machines around Cambridge give out a lot of £5 notes. This is all fine if you're not taking out much, but puts a real strain on the stitching of my Mulberry wallet when I try to fit £400 worth of low-value currency inside it. What can I do?

Dear Doge (Urbino),

‘Lettere di cambio’ or bills of exchange were instituted in the 13th century in a time of great prosperity for the Most Serene Republic of Venice. They saved many a wealthy merchant the inconvenience of carrying around their weighty ducats and doubloons. May I suggest that you do the same and write some bills – don’t forget to date them and impose your seal in vermilion wax. Alternatively, you could buy a ‘classy’ money clip from wowcufflinks.com and have your name engraved in one of three fonts including Lucida Calligraphy and Monotype Corsiva – so you’re sorted really. If you chose the latter option, Beelzebub will have reserved a space for you in hell.

Your humble servant,

Agony Uncle

Dear Agony Uncle,

People have said I have an evil face. How should I deal with this?

Dear George Osborne,

It pains me to admit that I too have recently encountered this problem. Personally, I have come to terms with the fact that I may in truth have an evil face. I regularly suffer discrimination on account of my dastardly looks, but this hasn’t stopped me ascending to the dizzy heights of Varsity columnist, nor has your face stopped you from becoming Chancellor of the Exchequer. A long-term solution to the whole evil-face malarkey may be to tone down the general malevolence, though this is pure conjecture on my part. Alternatively, a face-lift is a quick fix. Or botox? The most important thing is that you feel comfortable with your own face.

Yours in moral support,

Agony Uncle

Agony Uncle,

I seem to have joined a cult inadvertently since replying to an email about joining the college rugby team. As the weeks have gone by, this cult has become more and more insistent that I devote my life to their cause – which they have still kept hidden from me. This has included dressing in the clothes of the opposite sex in public, chanting strange latin verse and telling all comers that I am not in fact a member of King's College, Cambridge but in fact owe my allegiance to a certain Kellogg College, Oxford, whose existence I am dubious about. At every attempt to leave this cult, I have been physically assaulted with leeks, fish and other foodstuffs and their culture of intimidation has not let up. How can I break free of this terrible group and save my degree?

Dear Downing College Football Cultist,

Your cult is notorious for its hedonistic excesses. The great sacrifice of 1959 saw 23 freshers sacrificed to Huitzilpochtli and Terry Wogan; John Cleese, who was High Priest at the time, also lost a finger. It seems that the current incarnation of the Cult is a pale semblance of its past glory: chanting Latin verse is nothing out of the ordinary and cross-dressing is perfectly acceptable. Vis à vis Coco Pops, let me allay your suspicions: Kellogg College Oxford does indeed exist, it’s on Banbury road. Fittingly, it’s crest includes an ear of wholegrain wheat. May I remind you that it is etiquette not to leave the table before a meal is finished, particularly when served a delicate fillet of monk fish poached in a valpolicella jus served with a vissychoise of creamed leeks at the annual Cult meal. No wonder it was hurled at you, you rude Ostrogoth. Break free? Why would you ever want to? Save your degree? Pfff. All laud and honour to the terror of Mixteca, the mighty left-handed hummingbird Huitzilpochtli.

You are cholecystokinin,

Agony Uncle