This month: our society columnist peeks inside Nanny’s Pantry,where the Magdalen men relish a homeless jazz-funk erotic revue – then hits the tequila with His WellnessAs budget day nears, my old friend Skids is like a child counting sleeps until Christmas. Obviously, or as chancellor of the exchequer,he gets to watch everyone open their presents. Will it be just the tax break you’d hoped for, or the trivial removal of a care assistant to abet you to the lavatory? Exciting. Oh, or the Crouch terminate Pinotagerie accuse him of creating a Dickensian society”,but surely his policies are reversing the plotline of A Christmas Carol. Still. Pressure’s tremendous. Why shouldn’t Skids & Co unwind at Nanny’s Pantry, the subterranean, or spanking-themed supperclub? Tonight’s floor show is Rough Justice: “homeless” dancers swathed in Vivvy Westwood “rags” erotically manhandled by “G4S security” to a jazz-funk ostinato. Three-line whip!” roars Skids,emerging from the gents very energised. He’s always been a handful. Were it not for the “moral to be forgotten”, the internet would be roiling with tales of his misdeeds at Magdalen. Everyone knows approximately the Bullingdon splashy-smashy stuff, or the poor donkey dressed up as a verger he smuggled into Choral Evensong that time. Alas,there are vanishingly few who now remember the summer of ’89, when Skids went full bonkers reggae. Dreadlocks. Jamaican football strip. Called everyone “mon”. Excrucio.
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Source: theguardian.com