The noble watermelon. The most flavourless member of the tropical fruit family; sweet but slighly insipid, this monstrous sphere is unremarkable in almost every situation. Try saturating it with vodka, however, and and you’ll find it suddenly becomes the centerpiece of any pre-Bridge fiesta.

A little fiddly to make, but the novely of consuming alcohol through munching fruit flesh rather than downing yet more shots is a welcome change for your shrivelled liver, and is a great ice-breaker. Prepare vodka watermelon a day in advance, by cutting a hole in the top of a watermelon, filling a funnel with vodka and allowing the alcohol to gradually permeate into the fruit.

A great way to add some variety to festivities, procrastinate from looming deadlines and get in one of your five a day. Overall the taste is a bit grim, but the idea is a high key banger. Really one for all you kids missing summer days – after all, what is more summery than a watermelon and chill?

I’m nervous. I hear the shoes I have to fill earned a bit of a cult following. I’m scared of microwaves and I’ve never eaten a ready-meal.

Luckily, Co-op’s reduced shelf delivers the goods, and I’m squinting into the instructions on the back of a £2 ‘King Prawn Bucatini’ (translate as ‘big spaghetti’). There are hurdles: are all plates microwavable? How many times should I pierce the film lid? A herby aroma fills the kitchen. After a good few burned fingers and a bit of a spillage, I’m happily plated up, a tad disappointed at the number of prawns (the packet promised 12 per cent prawn) but generally optimistic about the slow roasted tomatoes.

The sauce was wonderfully citrusy and gloriously parsley-ish, but marks should be docked for scarce and rubbery prawns. The appearance, as above, can also be described as somewhat messy; maybe I haven’t got my James Coppin tekkers on fleek yet. All in all however, couldn’t have asked for gentler dish for losing my ready meal virginity. Roll on Second Week

“Oxford, home of lost causes, and forsaken beliefs and unpopular names and impossible loyalties.” Thus surmised Victorian social theorist Matthew Arnold. For Arnold, just as red is to the rose and water is to the sea, drinking clubs are to Oxford. This week, C+ investigates the clandestine world of the Oxford society scene. Whole forests have been felled for this subject, but few accounts actually capture just how pervasive these organisations are at our university. Often, these organisations are depicted as the retreat of a handful of over-privileged, public school hedonists. You’d have to be living in a pig’s head not to have heard the Ashcroft/ Oakeshott allegations concerning the Prime Minister’s time at Oxford. Is it time we recognised that these organisations are not only widespread, but enjoy membership from a substantial minority of the student body? Let’s re-evaluate the mixed bag that is club land.

We actually know relatively little about these dining societies. A January 2014 Freedom of Information Request sent to all colleges and PPHs suggested general ignorance of the behalf of many colleges towards drinking societies. Of the sixteen responses received from colleges and PPHs, all stated that from information available no disciplinary action had been taken against drinking societies or their activities. Estimates range for the total number; Tatler reckoned there were 48 back in September 2014, but in the past Cherwell has put the tally at 28. The likelihood is that the number far exceeds both estimates, most colleges boasting two or three active organisations for men and women. Onewell informed member of the Gridiron Club suggests there are at least a thousand students across the university involved in similar organisations, probably more.

But as one drinking club president told Cherwell, “Those that are reported on probably deserve the bad press they receive, but as with anything, there are numerous societies that don’t behave appallingly, but of course this isn’t newsworthy, so isn’t reported. People tend to be mainly aware of raucous, infamous men-only societies, and take this to represent drinking societies as a whole.” 

Unfortunately for these clubs, when controversy comes calling it tends to hit hard. The Abbotts, an all male, black tie establishment at the innocuous Corpus Christi, allegedly tore down LGBT flags from their JCR a year ago, whilst the Black Cygnets of St Hugh’s played with fi re in Michaelmas 2013 by planning a ‘fox hunt’ event culminating at Wahoo. Eight national and international papers picked up the story, including the Telegraph and the Huffi ngton Post

Unpopular names are characteristic of these organisations. From the Sir Henry Pelham Gentleman’s Sporting Society to the Viceroys (as in, colonial viceroys) to L’Ancien Regime at Merton. The monikers of these groups seem to have tumbled out of a tasteless Victorian novel.

Broadly, drinking clubs fall into two categories; university and college. At the university level there are three main organisations; the Bullingdon, Piers Gaveston and the Assassins. Perhaps the most infamous university dining club in the world, the Bullingdon now faces something of a membership crisis. The former headmaster of Eton is known to have personally instructed Old Etonians not to join, depriving the Buller of its most fertile recruiting ground. On the other hand Piers Gaveston, seems to be fl ourishing. Founded in 1977, much like the Merton time ceremony, it seems to have hoodwinked its way into Oxford antiquity.

Certainly the least well known of three, but undoubtedly the most fun, is the Assassins. These would-be killers are tasked with ‘murdering’ certain targets in bizarre and imaginative ways. Giant squishy fridges, rubber ducks and snuff boxes have all been accessories

But to find the ugly underbelly of Oxford dining life you have to move down to the college level. Christ Church perhaps leads the herd. They not only boast the Cardinals (see right), but also the Loder, which collectively refuses to drink out of anything but 18th-century silverware. How these people expect to survive in the real world is anyone’s guess. If shiny receptacles are not for you, House bar still hosts the ‘Beer Verge’ where members must down five pints of beer then five shots of tequila. Then again, if athletic endeavouris more your thing Christ Church’s Flowers and Fairies ties prospectivecandidates to an existing member for a drinking session. Failure to keep up brings retribution: more drinking. Anyone still slightly sober by this stage has to run laps aroundthe House’s first quad, removing a garment at each corner. For good measure there’s also the Mercurials,a club whose purpose seems to be retrieving bottles from a pond. And this is without even mentioning the Alices, Christ Church’s notoriously sophisticated women’s fine dining society.

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Go down Broad Street and you’ll find the headquarters of the Claret Club at Trinity. Not one to shy away from notoriety, the club organised a dinner last term in college with their biological (as opposed to college) fathers. This supposedly culminated with the fathers and sons heading out to PT where one generous parent allegedely placed their credit card behind the bar, and announced, like a scene from The Riot Club, “We are going to spend a fuck load of money.”

Of briefer infamy were the Penguins of Hertford. Set up in 2009, their elaborate initiation ceremonies reputedly involved swimming in the Cherwell, dancing around Oxford in the nude smeared with goose fat, and finally, eating raw squid. The Penguins truly was a home of lost causes; Hertford College swiftly shut it down. 

Celebrity involvement is never far afield either. Strip club owner Peter Stringfellow supposedly fronted the King Charles Club, an allmale drinking society now banned from St John’s; Ed Balls founded the Steamers of Keble and a photo of the former Labour MP surfaced of him in Nazi uniform whilst attending one the club’s 1987 soirées. And it is curious that in the press furore surrounding the Prime Minister and Piers Gaveston, it has yet to come to light that a certain Cameron, D. was president of the Gridiron Club in 1987 as well.

The reality is that Oxford fine dining covers an enormous spectrum of the good, the bad and the very, very ugly. Far from the retreat of a tiny student elite they remain a mainstay of the Oxford social scene. Their names may be dated, but forsaken they are not, at least yet, despite Arnold’s gloomy prediction.

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Case Study: The Gridiron Club

It’s not all bestiality, criminal damage and drug orgies

You will probably not have heard of the Gridiron Club, or even the Grid as it is more commonly called. The main reason for this is that the Grid is unlike the infamous Bullingdon or the abruptly well-known Piers Gaveston. It doesn’t make good Daily Mail headlines because it isn’t outrageous or misogynistic (beyond its all-male membership requirement, that is). Its main claim to current fame is that David Cameron was President of the club in 1987-8.The club was founded in 1884 as a beefsteak club, open to male members of the University of Oxford. Initially, membership was limited to those who had come up from public schools but that is no longer the case. Beefsteak clubs became popular in the 18th century, with the fi rst opening its doors around 1705. However, this club didn’t last long and the first successful example was The Sublime Society of Beef Steaks which was founded three decades later.

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Oxford’s Gridiron is not atypical in using the traditional meat grilling gridiron as their symbol and namesake. The beefsteak was seized upon as a motif, as it conveyed Whiggish ideas of liberty, prosperity and patriotism. Today’s Grid has its headquarters above the Pizza Express in the Golden Cross, in an elegant Grade II-listed building first recorded   in 1187.

It is a modernising society that is quick to dismiss rumours of red-trouser dress codes and misogynistic practices. The fact that the principal rumour concerned coloured trousers in itself telling; the Grid is a world far removed from pigs and drugs.

In December 2014, the society considered a motion to admit female members. The motion was supported, with 22 voting for it. However, since 13 voted against, the motion failed to pass the two-thirds majority threshold. Thus, the Grid is an example of the less offensive end of the drinking society scale, where the intention is primarily not to shock or disturb.

was glad, and unsurprised, to hear that Suzannah Lipscomb is an out-and-out feminist. “I don’t think anyone of sound mind could be otherwise”, she tells me. The plight of feminists has changed significantly in the last twenty years, and it is certainly still needed now. Lipscomb points to the regressive steps that have occurred regarding gender equality – namely the sexualisation and objectification of women’s bodies.

But the academic realm of Oxford was not where she came across sexism. Lipscomb says that here she felt she was in a safe place as a woman, as both under- and post-graduate. Nor is it especially sexist in the higher echelons of the academic world to which she now belongs, it’s a progressive area with positive changes being made regarding gender equality. Yet she was stunned to find that in the working world, after many years of studying at Oxford, she was minimised because she was a woman. A common and unwelcome reaction from people meeting Lipscomb for the first time is to say: “you don’t look like what we’d expect a historian to look like” – an indicator of the inherent sexism of society, the misconception that a historian would be older, perhaps rather plain looking, and probably male.

In a recent article on feminism, Lipscomb commented on “the media adulation of women who have achieved nothing beyond looking good, be they Jordan or Kate Middleton.” Reading this, I was struck – could a historian who writes of past monarchs with such vitality, possibly think that the monarchy today is irrelevant? Confining them within a critique of glossy magazines rather than giving them proper recognition for their pertinence? No, not at all – Lipscomb describes herself as a monarchist (admittedly probably conditioned by the nature of her work and interests). By making the remark that she did, Lipscomb was finding fault not with Kate Middleton, but with the media and its absurd obsession with the appearance of public figures. Yet she admits that “looking good” is a large part of what Kate Middleton’s job is. It is difficult for a royal to make a political statement or opinion without an uproar from the media; theirs are the faces of Britain, but not its voices. And so yes, maybe Kate hasn’t achieved much beyond an impeccable dress sense and taming her mane, but in this day and age it’s actually not for her to be doing much more.

Considering today’s obsession with aesthetics, it’s hardly surprising that TV history is so popular. When I asked whether televised history lacks the depth and quality of written history, Lipscomb emphasised that TV history has a number of benefits that academic books are without. Yes, the average documentary has far fewer words than an academic article, or even a lecture, but what the production team do with the visuals is invaluable. Places, objects, re-enactments – television has a very different impact to a book; it can provoke empathy and stimulate the senses, making the past more accessible. If anything, history on the television leans towards empathy with the past at the expense of how different it actually was. As the popular adage goes, ‘history belongs to everyone’. It is important to have it in the public forum, on the TV, to interest people who are not yet interested.

On the topic of commemorating the World Wars whilst conflicts still ravage the world today, Lipscomb was definite that it was right and proper to memorialise those who fought in World Wars One and Two, especially considering veterans still live today. These conflicts were significant to the formation of our people. Lipscomb noted that, as a historian, it is important to prevent false narratives being spread; when topics are popularised in this way they are inevitably taken out of the diligent and professional hands of the historian, yet the accuracy of these formative events is crucial. Lipscomb believes that a ‘Just War’ is possible, and pacifism is not an appropriate response to the current situation in the Middle East, for example. Britain’s response to the situation in Syria regarding refugees is not ethical, and this is a consequence of not getting involved militarily.

Discussing war and defence, I wondered whether that should be a factor in the EU referendum. With the current focus being largely economic, was it not also appropriate to discuss potential inter-European war and peace? That was, after all, the very reason for the formation of the European Union; to keep the peace in the wake of World War Two. The pro-EU politicians can count on Lipscomb for her vote. The defence point, she commented, makes a lot of sense. Organisations such as the European Union and the United Nations are flawed, but they are the best options we have regarding working together and ensuring peace. “Leaving the EU would be foolish – we would suddenly realise how small an island we 

Bored of languishing upon sunbeds in the 36°C Italian sun on the shores of a warm, crystalline lake, this Oxonian ex-pat finally plucked up the courage to enter into the world of Italian stallions upon that infamous app that governs modern dating. English Tinder is a cruel mistress. One poor, dishevelled selfie and the thumb all too quickly swipes left, banishing you to dating purgatory. But the lusty European sun seems to blind the locals and foreign tourists alike, inclining them to swipe right to this pale Englishman.

I went in search of a beautiful Italian male with whom I could share something a bit hotter than a freshly baked calzone and a €3 bottle of local prosecco. But before too long, I’ve attracted the attention of a well-spoken Belgian professing his ceaseless adoration. Which before we’d even met I admit is a bit intense. But the hopeless romantic in me who dreams of the day someone will pen me a sequence of sonnets was just slightly appeased.

It was supposed to be the Tinder date to end all. Yet, quite literally ‘in fair Verona where we lay our scene’, something was amiss. A beach date at a ruined Roman villa is supposed to be the stuff of dreams. But traipsing across a lake in the baking sun, before stripping off and exposing all flab in the most Baywatch-manner your skinny body can manage to your near silent date, all within ten minutes of meeting, is more uncomfortable than arousing. ‘Thus, with a kiss’, and an awkward one at that, we parted – thinking to never meet again. The endless flurry of crashing waves had extinguished the small spark the flurry of dick pics had ignited in the underwear of this intrepid European adventurer.

But what’s that from yonder WhatsApp calls? The streams of adoring apologetic texts start pouring onto my screen. I’m persuaded to date two, and before too long it’s more than the tomatoes on the pizza before us that are blushing. Stumbling back to my hotel, I quickly turf my roommate out with one hand and occupy myself with the other. Holiday romance (kind of) consummated, spooning resumed, I feel an odd twinge that wasn’t just something more pressing pushing into my lower back. The wine, the beautiful Venetian sun and a hot man next to me are melting my icy English heart. My thoughts turn away from smut and begin to wonder, perhaps being told “I love you” on a second date wasn’t that crazy. Or maybe it was just sunstroke from my refusal to ruin my preened hair with an unsightly hat .

The mirage continues to obscure all logical thought. The week passes and the time comes to part. I find myself to have become the madman who considers long distance romance, of sacrificing the endless stream of twinks presenting themselves at my feet at the porters’ lodge or the floors of Plush. But alas, these two star-crossed lovers were doomed to a tale of woe. Floating upon a lilo on the crystal clear lake in the midday sun, I’m told the things said to me were but sweet nothings; a thing to pass the time whilst away from a flock of ripped Flemish lovers at home.

As if this tale could not get more poetic, I find myself being consoled by a kindly Italian nun upon a ferry who understands not a word of my fiery escapades into ‘the love that must not speak it’s name’ abroad. Summer loving complete, stole home this English heavy-hearted son; penis appeased,