There are, roughly speaking, two conversations you have on Grindr. The first kind is the one you have earlier on in the evening, or when you’re just starting off. You pick profiles with wholesome names like ‘student’, ‘Tim’ or ‘hey there’, and engage in polite chitchat about what he studies, what you’ve been doing today and what films you’re both into. The key thing, however, is that while you’re both there to fuck (it is, technically, possible to be on Grindr and actually be looking for honest-to-goodness coffee dates — I’ve even been on one – but we shall set these aberrances aside), in this conversation no-one must be the first to put sex on the table. 

So, with strategy that would put UN negotiators to shame, it is crucial to be the first one to ask, ‘What are you looking for?’ That way, he has to be the one to bring sex (Grindr lingo: ‘fun’) into the picture, and you can finally drop the worry that you were revealing your harlot ways to an innocent young man who just wanted a gym buddy. 

The other conversation one has on Grindr is the one you have once you get frustrated with that delicate dance. Maybe you take your face off your profile, maybe you shrug and throw caution to the wind. ‘Horny?’ you message every likely candidate (the pool getting older as your standards drop through the night) within five minutes’ biking radius. Exchange a few photos to confirm he has the anatomy you’re interested in and head on over. 

You meet. Horny optimism encounters sober reality, and with no roadmap we revert to the manners our mums taught us, offering drinks and (no, really) sometimes even shaking hands, with a few strained words about the weather outside. Finally you work up the mettle to lean over and make out with this stranger you met two minutes ago, and like a skydiver’s leap it falls into place from there, and – bonus – since you don’t have to care about each other, you can be as selfish as he’ll let you be. Half an hour later you’re back on the street, slightly stickier, lighter on your feet, and wondering if everyone recognises that smug just-got-rimmed expression on your face. 

The vinyl to Grindr’s MP3, gay saunas are an institution many people don’t know still exists. Think men wandering around darkened corridors in only towels (with cheaper or free entry to under-25s, this genuinely isn’t Night of the Living Dead), generally with some sort of steam room, jacuzzi and mattress-sized cubicles (‘cabins’) for privacy. No pretences of delicacy here; it’s all on show: eye contact or a gentle grope as you pass is the favoured statement of intent, and if you’re going at it in a public space you’ll probably look up to find yourself in an impromptu orgy (note: saunas ruin you for Never Have I Ever). Finished, shower off the encounter and find someone new. 

Romantic dry spells I know all about. But going without sex? Sorry: not my style.

Unless you are particularly qualified, a Doctor or a Professor for example, you will have to choose your title from a binary mix of Miss, Mrs, Ms or Mr. Not only is the gender specific nature of this selection restrictive for those who do not identify as male or female, but the choices for those who do identify as female are contingent upon their relation to a man. 

A man will almost always be ‘Mr’ – regardless of marital status. A man’s title stands alone, as does he himself. But as a female, I must be addressed according to my relationship, or lack of, with a man. I must be identified as either single and up for grabs, or as married, a man’s possession. Have we really not moved on from the time when women were so subordinated that they could only be referred to in relation to men? 

Even Ms has bad connotations – it seems evasive, a product of this social conditioning that a woman should be married, intimating that Ms is a way to cover up one’s spinsterhood. It is for Misses who are ‘too old’ to be a Miss; and here lies the ageism suffered by women regarding their relationship to men, not endured by men themselves. When a boy comes of age and crosses the threshold into adulthood, he gets to upgrade his title from Master to Mr immediately, on the principle that he is now a ‘man’. He is independent and acquires the superiority of the title ‘Mr’ on account of his age alone. On account of himself, alone. A single man in his forties is a bachelor, a word with all sorts of glamorous connotations – bachelorhood is a choice, a lifestyle, a freedom. Yet the female equivalent, spinsterhood, is reminiscent of decrepit old ladies hoarding cats or snakes or mothballs. 

It is a situation in life that women do not choose, apparently, rather like being picked last in PE lessons, or in this case not being picked at all. And again this antiquated approach to relations between men and women – the latter relegated to passivity – is reinforced by the titles we must pick from – available, taken, I’d rather not say. 

And for those who do not fit the gender binary, there is a wide array of titles – Ind, Misc, M, Mx, Pr – but how often do you see them in the drop-down box for your delivery address? 

There are so many of these gender-neutral titles, yet so few are widely recognised. People are not giving enough attention to the significant portion of our society that does not play by the antiquated and intolerant rules of the binary system currently still in place. Our failure to progress beyond these conventions makes me wonder whether we need titles at all. 

Hasn’t society moved on from the days when a title was a necessary formality? In many professions, being on first name terms is considered positive behavior and the terms Mr, Mrs, Ms etc genuinely provide little added information about a person. There is a strong case for saying that titles are indeed redundant. 

In an atmosphere of greater acceptance of identities that do not conform to the patriarchal norms of a male dominated society, isn’t it about time that we rid ourselves of the titles that restrict us to gender binary roles? Moreover, the continued use of Miss and Mrs consigns those who do identify as female to the patriarchal ideal of a woman as a man’s property; whereas men get upgraded to Mr simply on account of their age. In fact, we hardly hear the distinction between Master and Mr these days – if men can drop this ageist approach to prefixing their name, why can’t women do the same without even more offensively differentiated titles? Why must women be referred to only in relation to men? 

Our society has started to progress out of the patriarchal dark ages to see gender in a more enlightened, open minded and less binary way. There is much more awareness of female emancipation and transgender identification and the more we talk about and engage in this discussion the better.

A gargantuan monster unfurls from its tightly-kept foetal position, and rises its drowsy head, bearing saliva-soaked fangs which reek of lethargy and drunken arguments. That’s right. 5th Week is approaching. 

I don’t know what it is about 5th Week. I don’t know why, or what, or who, or where, or how. But I do know that 5th Week is not for the merry. 

Now over the last few thousands of years, Oxonians have developed several coping techniques for 5th Week Blues. I don’t have time to go over all the tried and failed remedies, instead I come with one new tactic.

So. Right now it’s Friday, which means you’ll be limbering up for 5th Week, and all the tears, pain, exhaustion, and indulgent complaints it entails. At least you think you are.

But of course if you follow the magic words which you are about to read, inscribed upon this good-quality thin material derived from dried pulp with wood n grass n ting in it, then you will never step anywhere near aquamarine, navy, turquoise, teal, or azure. 

You’re going to need to buy some supplies. Your shopping list is as follows:

1. An A5 Diary, where two pages map a week‘s worth of time. 

2. One new black fine-tipped sharpie

3. A pack of five Tesco’s Finest Belgian Deluxe Triple Chocolate cookies

4. Monster Munch

5. An eraser/rubber

So you’ve done your shopping, and you are now sitting in your room. Unpack all your shopping and lay it beside you. Pick up the A5 diary, and turn to the double-page spread which depicts 5th Week. Pick up the rubber. Fiercely rub across the whole page, imagining that you are obliterating the week. This is what some people like to call a metaphor. Never underestimate a metaphor. 

(If at any point someone tries to interrupt you, pick up a pack of Monster Munch (placed handily beside you as I instructed), and throw it instantly at the particular acquaintance who is trying to socialise with you. This will naturally dispel them with ease, either due to the acutely queasy fumes that Monster Munch emits, or the strange fanatic reaction of those Monster Munch obsessors. Who will grab the pack, and scarper, to eat away their soul in peace.)

Once you feel you have sufficiently metaphorised the week, brush the rubber shavings into a neat pile and then rush to the nearest sink and wash wash away. There can’t be a shaving in sight. 

Now obviously the 5th Week is still there. Don’t worry. Use the sharpie and make quick and aggressive swipes across each day’s dated titling. Ha! Fuck you 5th Week. As we know Sundays mark the beginning of the week in Oxford (what is that even about), so at 11.55pm on Saturday, clutch the diary to your chest and chant the colours of the rainbow over and over again. DO NOT SAY BLUE. It’s probably best not to say Indigo either. You can never be too safe.

With good luck, and the right spiritual spheres, life should zoom straight on to 6thWeek. I hope all is more pleasant over there for you.

Oh, and the cookies are for me, as a thank you present. You know where to find me.

Them little blue lights on the ceiling are the first thing I see as I open my eyes to the dreary articulations of the driver saying “St Clement’s”. There is always a tonne of people on the Oxford Tube on a Sunday night. I hate every single one of those people. 

I schlep my stuff off the bus and wonder back to the Temple, a house of wonder and mystery where I live with the gang. Its about 11:59pm so I’ve missed the tri-wizard tournament – a weekly FIFA battle between Hector, Callum and myself. I shed a tear – I lament the hat-trick Wilfred Bony might have scored for the Ivory Coast.

Mondays, like most days, is a work day. Unsurprisingly then, I go to work. I’ll get to the office about 9ish and check through the important emails from the weekend. I can’t operate before I’ve had my first avocado. I have this one with balsamic vinegar. I spill vinegar on my trackies. I’ll get a suit on and go to meetings. Sometimes they are interesting, often they aren’t. Today I am representing students on a committee about alumni relations. In short, they want us to get rich and give them money. If, as part of an attempt to get rich, we die trying, they hope we will put something in our will. This is understandable because the University genuinely believes it is strapped for cash. It kind of is, but also just announced it raised £2 billion. I play hard to get and say I’ll mentor people and stay in touch.

I have an iPad. At intervals of between 30 and 105 seconds, it pings with an email. 9 times out of 10, it’s an email with no relevance to anybody. No I don’t want translation services, debt collection services or to help you pick up your euro millions jackpot. Sometimes it’s an alert to tell me OUSU is in the news. It’s a nervous wait for the ever-reliably unreliable eduroam to load the email. It’s normally fine – just the Daily Mail saying how bad it is we invited a certain speaker.

I’ll head back to the office and get some work done – writing papers for university committees, speaking to students who want help with stuff, arranging more meetings, another avocado. I’ll listen to some Biggie, Fleetwood Mac, or JME to get me through. Sometimes I’ll be running or attending Uni or OUSU events, other times, I won’t.

My evenings vary greatly. Sometimes, I’ll be meeting common room presidents or going to OUSU council, or seeing some actually normal students who may or may not be my friends. Sometimes I’ll go on an inevitably ill-fated date. (If you can help me find love, please email [email protected]).

However tonight, as happens a few times each week, I am DJing at one of Oxford’s fine night time establishments. 

I’m at Cellar painfully early, so much so that everywhere, there are still half-full tinnies of Red Stripe that were being nursed for about two hours before their nurses decided to go home in order to save themselves for the next Cellar night. In the light, it’s not that cool a place. I’ll find the person organising and they’ll be running around worried that their zine is going to crumble if tonight isn’t equalling Bully-level waveyness. They tell me I’m on at some god-forsaken time. I ask what I should play for this impressively edgy night? They say nineties. I wonder if Oxford will ever get over the decade that was the least notable for music except for the wonderful Garage and Acid House stuff that defines modern electronic music. But whenever I drop some Sweet Female Attitude, there is still only about four people who get as excited as they should. Three of those four work behind the bar at Cellar. The requests for Steps, S Club and Five are like daggers through my soul. It’s late and I’ve been worn down over my now 18 hour day. I dance along to ‘Reach’ reluctantly, and the zine makes enough money to get published.

Another early morning and more of the same. When there is an issue that is likely to hit the headlines about Oxford, I meet with a lovely man named Jeremy. He is in charge of the University’s Public Affairs Directorate and his team read the student newspapers religiously. Hello. We normally meet in the mornings. 

On weekends, I’ll often go back to Watford to watch the mighty (and now Premier League) Hornets. I’ll have to be reading emails and work things at half time, but it’s ok because I love my job. But I love Watford FC more.

I get the Oxford Tube back to Oxford.