Clare
Mahiki madness

A brigade of yuppie ruffians, seemingly unaffected by the credit crunch, decided to partake in a post-work tipple at a Hawaiian-kitsch central London club. Boogying late into the night on their private table, one of the larger fellows in the team tumbled from his secure perch. So engrossed was he in hedonism, his limbs provided no intermediary between his head and the liquor-laden table. “Face-planting into half a G’s worth of booz was a big call,” remarked one onlooker.

Trinity Hall
The Book of Tits

A dapper young lad thought he had struck gold when he managed to coax his way into the abode of our superlatively endowed harlot. Imagine his glee when she brought out a photo album of herself wearing none too many vestments, which she promised had never before come under the glare of any man. Supping at the watering-hole with his comrades the next day, he swiftly broke his pact of secrecy, only to encounter wry chuckles. He may not have been the only voyeur.

St John’s
International relations

A blue-blooded gent was swept off his feet by an Oriental potentate, taking time out from Toryism and Tatler to experience a hazy Arabian (k)night of passion. We can only applaud him for doing his bit for cross-cultural diplomacy.

Trinity
Back in the game

Detained at a house of medicine for failure of some vital organs, our high-liver was instructed to end his raucous lifestyle, and spend the week in hospital to stave off imminent mortality. His organs could not have betrayed him at a worse time, because that night there was a scrumptious party to attend on a very sacred lane. The resuscitated debauchee waited for his loving mother to relieve herself, tore forth from his drip, and hurried down the hospital corridor with buttocks exposed. He received a champion’s welcome. “You look like death,” remarked one partygoer, to which our organ-less protagonist could only chuckle knowingly.