The gold-tipped iron gates welcomed visitors towards the Great Quad. A light dusting of snow lifted and accentuated the parapets of the City Wall, its ledges and cracked mortar iced with delicate decoration. The well-trodden path surrounding the glazed lawn was filled with small groups of mesmerised guests. Torches illuminated the cloister arches and created shadows where illicit love trysts could soon be enjoyed. 

The initial giggling excitement of arrivals was carefully quashed by the splendour of the occasion; elegant ball gowns peeking from faux fur wraps, cream silk scarves jauntily slung over hired tuxedos. It was a movie set. Only the horses and carriages were missing, and the smell of leather tack and the sounds of hooves accentuating the crisp evening air, as revellers escorted one another to their Christmas in paradise.

‘Jane, you look stunning.’ Russell beamed.

‘I know, it took me ages. The snow’s making the flagstones a bit slippery, but isn’t it gorgeous?’

Before they disappeared through the ivory balloons, some guys started shouting from the middle of the circular lawn. Turning towards the commotion, it was evident the snow had been disturbed and deep brown tracks now crisscrossed the muddy grass, the soft white carpet ruined. 

Russell saw Joe wander over to greet Jane and then spotted Grant, one of the Bullingdon boys, in shirtsleeves; his face flushed with red cheeks blowing white breath. 

In front of a small gang were two equally sized snowmen. The dare was to carry one of these three times around the path and beat Grant in a race with the other. Russell nudged Jane.

‘Chariots of fucking fire!’  

‘Hey you, big boy. You got what it takes?’ Grant strode over to Joe. ‘Fancy a run with Frosty the Snowman?’

‘What do I get when I beat you?’

‘You get to piss on my snowman.’

‘I’ll do it, if I don't get to piss on your snowman. You can do that yourself, mate.’

They shook hands.

Spectators gathered. Russell held Joe’s jacket and watched him roll up his sleeves. He couldn't work out if this was horny or horrible – testosterone-pumped athletes or just boys with their toys. Annoyingly, it was probably a bit of both. One of the group had a whistle and raised his arm to signal the start of the race. He blew. 

Grant quickly lifted his snowman and moved forward. Joe had trouble finding a grip, but once cradled, he was able to make advances towards Grant’s disappearing backside. The first lap they remained close but Joe could not gain ground. During the second, Grant started to pull away, his mates jeering at Joe. ‘Show us your shit, Shrek. A piece of piss. A piece of piss.’ 

By the third lap, Joe was flagging badly and puffing hard. He could barely move forward and stared desperately ahead as Grant finished the race. Jane, seeing Joe the laughing stock, looked on in horror. He felt a sudden surge of anger and threw his snowman as hard as he could onto the lawn. The figure crumbled, clods of iced snow revealing a large concrete breezeblock. He stared at it. He’d been done, totally outmanoeuvred … and he found it funny. The crowd gasped – Joe laughed. He shrugged, trotted over to Grant, took his hand, and raised it above his head. 

‘You bloody showed me.’ He kept a broad smile as he walked over to Russell to collect his jacket. He’d stolen the show. As people started to disperse, admiring glances were made towards Joe. Jane ran to him and before he could say anything, she was in his arms kissing him hard. Russell looked on; amazed that she was letting his now sodden shirt soak her cream satin dress. 

Russell rolled his eyes towards the vast expanse of the winter sky, stars piercing the heavens, as if giving him glimpses of the discotheque beyond. 

Extract from ‘Oxford – Over and Out’ (the third book in the ‘Out In Oxford’ trilogy)

Alaster Douglas