Now, this is the story all about how I became the fresh(ers) prince of Cambridge.

Alcohol is a social lubricant. But who might have known it could even sufficiently lubricate the class system to allow the ascent of a mere fresher to royal status? It was the first weekend of Freshers’ Week – we were still naive to the dark truth that “week” was not a term to be taken literally – and the foetal entity that was my still-forming friendship group were living out every possible stereotype at the Union Freshers’ Ball. Free champers was quaffed – free, here, taken to mean £185 (special discount membership) – and dozens of oysters lost their squelchy, innocent little lives to my newly ‘vegetarian’ friend and me – “Wait, so, are you saying oysters aren’t vegetables?” *cue confused/concerned looks from shell-shucker*.

The ball was exactly what we beleaguered freshers needed: music that wasn’t tragic, yet generic enough to facilitate movements that might, superficially, be mistaken for dancing and singing (so as to conserve the meticulously crafted façade of being a normal person); photo opportunities to make school friends green with envy and demonstrate that people at Cambridge do actually have fun and can be down to earth (albeit in the grandeur of the world’s oldest debating society); a quantity of complementary alcohol so great that there was the potential, with some perseverance, to get your money back on the single greatest expense incurred by freshers all term.

With the oysters having set the regal atmosphere of the night, and the booze soliciting rather more scintillating conversation than the standard freshers’ fare of “Are you northern or southern?’/’Why would anyone intentionally study Classics?” etc. etc., we hit the D-floor. The alcohol really is key here, without which the caper (if you can call it that) could never have been pulled off. In fact, I’m not even sure whether we did “pull it off” or whether we were just so blind-drunk that the whisky/wine combo, forgiving as such concoctions can be, merely allowed us to wallow in blissful ignorance of the actual convincingness of our hilarious [read “sad”] japes.

At one point we were all standing awkwardly by the bar (come on, who put Fun on the playlist?) when another awkward group of proto-friends shimmied over. We all did the obligatory nod of acknowledgement, before moving onto actual conversation. “So, what are your names?” Cue ridiculous pseudonyms – I have no idea why – and equally ridiculous giggling. As an aside, I just want to say how glad I am to be at Cambridge, where everyone has such sophisticated senses of humour.

Continuing down this ‘hilarious’ conversational jaunt, our characters were realised, with back-stories more and more elaborate. Several whisky cokes (well-bred specimen that I am) and a dodgy, Mitteleuropa-ish accent later and Hans, Crown Prince of Switzerland, was born. As it transpires, Switzerland doesn’t have a monarchy. Nor has it ever. Nevertheless, I was gawped at, whispered about, and introduced to more people. And no one suspected anything – a chilling indictment of people’s varying states of inebriation. The fascination with minor European royalty (or even major national royalty) is something I’ve never really understood. In any case, the prospect of meeting a prince clearly floats certain boats, because before long a veritable salon had formed around us. People spoke to me and were actually interested in what I had to say. All types “just wanted a word”. I was even accosted by a Marxist. I was introduced to some Old Wellingtonians who had been at school with a Habsburg princess, and others wanted a piece of me too. I was in demand. It was dire.

Moral: If you want to be admired and surrounded by people who think that titles and breeding are fundamental prerequisites to a lasting friendship, by all means do as I did. If, however, you’re a normal functioning human being and actually want to have fun on a night out, don’t. Tennyson pretty much hit the nail on the head: “Kind hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood”.

But then, didn’t he become a baron?