The Prime Minister's student experience differed slightly from mine. If I was at a party and a dead pig was knocking about, I would immediately dream of taking the pig home to fulfil the dream of endless bacon sarnies and days of drinking gammon-enthused Vodka. The impracticalities of such a dream are difficult to overcome. Would the beast fit in my friend's car? Would my Ikea cutlery set have the strength to perform such an epic feat of butchery? How would I cook entire limbs in my one little saucepan? In the end, despite being utterly broke and constantly craving meat, I would probably have to abandon my dream of free bacon.
If the insane rumours are true, David Cameron took a different, far more original approach to the dead pig. He decided to unbutton his trousers and put his penis in the pig's mouth. I certainly did my fair share of stupid things at university and I'm relatively proud of those stupid things, as they serve as a reminder of a simpler time when I could afford to be stupid. There were, however, limits. Putting a dead pig in my friend's car to secure the dream of endless bacon was just about in my ambit of stupidity - mainly because we were so very poor and bacon is so very nice. Putting my penis in a dead pig's mouth...not so much.
I find myself torn. I know what it's like to do stupid things and thus I feel a little sorry for David Cameron. I mean, can you imagine that hangover? 'Oh God, George, I did something stupid last night,' Cameron declares to his Bullingdon comrade. 'What did you do this time, Dave?' replies the intrigued future Chancellor. 'I dipped my willy in a dead pig's mouth.' George laughs and, obviously, asks for more details.
That kind of regretful hangover tortures the mind for weeks. The first day is one of constant self-criticism: 'why the hell did I do that?' and 'what is wrong with me?' Then you start piecing together the event, perhaps drawing on first-hand sources to find out who was there and exactly what happened. A few days later, you start rationalising the scenario and brush the incident off as inconsequential: 'everyone else was drunk', 'no one will remember' and so on. This act of denial is shattered when you attend a lecture and vague, familiar faces occupy neighbouring seats. You start to hear the mutterings of fellow students: 'that's him,' a random girl tells her new best mate, 'the one that molested a pig.'
Then for the next year, you walk through the corridors and random folks greet you with comic grunts and oinks. They call you 'pig boy' and leave Dick King Smith books in your locker. The pig puns are endless, as twitter has demonstrated so commendably. Bullies shout 'boar off' when you try to add something to the seminar and every time you narrate a story, you are accused of telling porkies. Before the end of the year, your friendship group decide to watch a Muppet's Christmas Carol and there is simply no way you can attend. Perhaps worse of all, you have to rabidly consume bacon sarnies and pork scratchings when no one is around, perfectly aware of the ridicule you would face if anyone was to witness your feast. University life is lonely post-pig-dipping.
This is why I'm torn. On the one hand, I know what it is like to feel ashamed after an act of stupidity and I have faced the often brutal consequences. On the other hand, I find it hard to feel sympathy because, you know, the individual in question may have dipped his penis in a dead pig's mouth. His penis...in a dead pig's mouth. I'm all about rooting for the underdog, but it's pretty hard to stand up for that guy. As much as I want to be there for our Prime Minister, as much as I understand what it's like to be marginalised for a silly intoxicated act, he may have dipped his penis in a dead pig's mouth. There is no coming back from that.