The Hipster: how did it even happen? He’s more likely to go to his lectures than the Parkend cheese floor, and now that Babylove has closed down you have no idea where on earth he goes in the evenings. You’ve never seen him in daylight, and you only went to the Bullingdon once for No Scrubs, and you didn’t like it because you don’t suit scrunchies, dungarees, or MD.
How do you meet him? You dream that one night he’ll mysteriously turn up at your college bop with several other people that you don’t recognise and be instantly attracted to your quirky-yet-ironic costume and you’ll fall deeply in love – you’ll be his muse, he’ll be your artiste, you’ll have fantastic sex, buy matching black turtlenecks and cigarettes (roll-ups, of course), discuss intersectionality and feminism and live happily ever after in Cowley.
In reality, he’ll happen to stumble across you hurling the contents of your stomach into the men’s toilet, and take pity on you and walk you home, then you’ll run up to him every time you see him in a club in the hopes that one day it’ll happen. Note to self: slut-dropping every time he is in the vicinity doesn’t really work on him as a pulling technique. And it definitely gets you some weird looks in Cellar.
If you do manage to go home with him, be careful. The last one I went home with had difficulties staying suitably up to the challenge, possibly due to the large quantity of drugs that I found in his desk drawer, and when it finally happened, it only happened for five minutes before he became so afraid of his headboard banging against the wall waking up his housemate that we had to stop.
There’s something endearing about a man who quotes French poetry in public, but is an awkward, shy mess in private. He may give you black coffee in the morning and he may have a collection of vinyl in his room (but often, oddly, no record player) and a poster from On The Road on his wall, but unless you know him really, really well it’s fairly rare to get him to laugh at anything. Least of all himself.