Aunty Maddy returns for one last spin of the chair, answering your May Week woesChiara Depliano-Cordeiro for Varsity

I’ve just gotten into a new situationship but we’re about to go home for the summer. I don’t want things to end, but we’re not officially together – what should I do?

Run. Run for the hills. You think being left on delivered hurts during term time? Try waiting for that sweet, sweet dopamine hit from a text back when the two of you are cities, nay, possibly even countries apart, and you’re trying to reassure yourself that the hot young thang on their arm on their story who looks suspiciously like you is obviously just a really close friend from home. You poor, sweet angel – is it really a holiday for you, if 99% of it is spent pining over someone with an avoidant-attachment style who, like most of the freaks at this university (let’s not kid ourselves, nobody here should be allowed in society), has A) crippling mummy/daddy issues, B) a God/martyr complex, or C) some sort of obscure, unheard-of sexual fetish that can only be explained by encounters with Nietszche at a critical point during their adolescence.

“If it’s tough times you’re after, you may as well be back in the library stupified by your own illiteracy”

Baby, it’s summer! If it’s tough times you’re after, you may as well be back in the library stupified by your own illiteracy, not going square-eyed glued to your empty phone screen while your long-suffering mates are trying to drag you away to hang ten. I could rattle off some spiel about loving and letting go, but honestly, when you’re one or two summer holidays away from the rest of your life, why waste precious time devoting yourself to a situation where the only souvenir they’ll bring you back from their illustrious travels is the clap?

Last year I infiltrated one of the May Balls by swimming across the Cam – and promptly came down with Weil’s disease days later. How can I avoid the same from happening this year when I try to sneak in again?

Nice try, fed. I wouldn’t give away my top-secret plans to anyone, let alone some snotty-nosed weakling who can’t make it across the length of a glorified kiddie pool without being struck down by some obscure Medieval-sounding ailment. Anyway, didn’t you get the memo? E. coli’s all the rage right now, dahling. It’s so popular, they even made it the face of the Thames boat races this year! Anyway, if you fear your delicate constitution won’t be able to handle another dip in those velvety murky brown waters, don’t think I’m going to be handing out any free advice (you hear that, Varsity!? I’m still waiting on my cheque…). That’s right, pond scum (see what I did there?), get your own schemes!

“Have you ever considered sacking it off for something cheaper, and let’s face it, probably infinitely more fun?”

Outside of seducing the bouncers, extorting one of the less senior (see: easily malleable) members of committee, or straight-up becoming a kind of medicine-man figure for one of the bands onstage that night (in which case, I want advertising commission), it’s gonna take some pretty nifty thinking for you to wrangle this one. Have you ever considered sacking it off for something cheaper, and let’s face it, probably infinitely more fun? I hear Ryanair flights to Ibiza are pretty cheap at this time of year, or, failing that, how about a bottle of supermarket-brand vodka, a packet of Marlboro Reds and a trip to Ely Cathedral? It’s got all the glamour, and none of the boat-club-freshers-chunning-into-a-bush vibes. If you’re still hell-bent on getting in, you’ll have to put yourself through the ultimate act of humiliation: paying full price for a ticket.

I’m a finalist. All of my friends have secured grad jobs with eye-watering starter salaries in the city, meanwhile, I’m going back to the same old small town and living with my parents, probably working in retail. How do I avoid losing all hope?

Do you ever wake up in the morning with the overwhelming urge to kick the living shit out of something? To square up to a stranger, slap yourself in the face, go completely doo-lally and nab a big hat and sunglasses and just bugger off somewhere, anywhere, other than here? These three years of pent-up energy, my friend, are what’s gonna keep you from falling flat on your arse once we stop playing pretend-adulthood and get spat out into the real world like a stale sausage roll. You can fail the year or do a panic Master’s, but honey, you can’t put off growing up forever. So what, you’re not being milked as a corporate cash cow? Who cares what your boffin mates are up to? Are they really happy? (Spoiler alert: almost certainly. People who have a lot of money tend to be very happy about it. And can you blame them? Better to be crying at the wheel of a spanking new beamer than at the back of my abysmal village bus service, having an asthma attack, trying not to breathe in the mould from the seats).

“Betray your country and become a sleeper cell for an enemy state! Sell your organs on the dark web!”

Take all of your pent-up energy and get yourself out of your room-turned-hoarding-space back at mum and dad’s. Join a pyramid scheme! Betray your country and become a sleeper cell for an enemy state! Sell your organs on the dark web! To compare, I am currently blessed with a bountiful stream of rural Australian mining reels on Instagram which are looking pretty damn tasty. There are just so many wonderful things to choose from! See you geezers down the outback/jobcentre/debtor’s prison in about five years time!

I’m first-year and desperately want to become an aspiring agony aunt. Help me, Aunty Maddy! Show me the way to become just like you.

Come on man, don’t make me responsible for how stressful your life is about to become. I don’t get paid enough (see: at all) for this. But if anyone else has got any bright ideas…

You’re just going to leave it? Now who’s got the avoidant attachment style?

This is getting weird. I only wanted the gig for the CV fodder. Please leave me alone.


Mountain View

Agony aunt: ‘There’s nothing sexier than a man who isn’t a slave to his masculinity’

I’m pretty sure you can’t sell your organs if they’re virtually pickled, you know that right?

*muffled screaming*

At 09:00 hours the following morning, after what was later revealed to be a protracted shootout with cartel death squads over unpaid gambling debts and flagrant abuse of the Lola’s smoking area, Aunty Maddy’s body was found laying at the peak of Mathematical Bridge with an apple in its mouth. In entirely unrelated news, if anyone is interested, a new slot has just opened up for a JobCentre appointment at 4pm this afternoon.