OPINION

Old Snogger's Diary

Stevan Balac Contributor

Illustrated by Iga Jasinka

Harvey Delauney Snogglesworth, President-At-Large of LSE Conservative Society, gives a quaint yet vivid portrayal of life on Houghton Street through extracts from his diary (written daily on the benches outside the Marshall Building, Lincoln’s Inn side, at 3.30 p.m.coincidentally when Pole Fitness hold their intermediate training sessions). As a bright young thing in the Conservative Party, he heartily engages in student politics and has ambitions of one day becoming a big hitter in British political media. This week, President Snogglesworth welcomes in the new cohort of Conservative Society members, manages to quell tensions with the Students’ Union, and avoids a dangerous delve into Russian geopolitics after a saucy dinner date in Mayfair…

Monday 26 September

Ahhh, the sweet smell of a new academic year here at LSE.

It's been a trying summer. Old Snogger’s Kensington pad recently fell through after Natasha’s father was extradited back to Bulgaria on completely bogus charges (those raspberry pickers were paid a damned fair wage, and I’ll not hear anything otherwise). So that leaves me renting a shoebox in the second year stomping ground of Bloomsbury before Dad gets his act together and takes the job at Lloyds. Que Sera Sera, as the bloke that cleaned the toilets at Rosebery used to say – that's life kiddo. Onto the next chapter.

The internship with Rees-Mogg went up the Swanny as well – lost out again to UCL’s Tory prez, Giles H. Gobswallower – so I settled for a guest-spot on GB News every weekday at 11 p.m. No pay, I’m afraid, but damn good for the old mèdia de social. In fact, I was retweeted by none other than Laurence Fox just the other week. Soooo… the plan is to settle for a reasonable, low stress-high dosh job post-uni with Dad whilst I get my life together, all the while building up a following until I can appear on Farage at the primetime 7 p.m. slot.

Tuesday 27 September

'Hell hath no fury… like a libtard scorned…’

Particularly those of the nose ringed, dyed hair variety that frequent the committee of a certain Students' Union at LSE. Sophie, the esteemed General Secretary, was far too nosey with the ConSoc accounts, so now our own treasurer Argentinian Steve has to explain away the 12 cases of Port we claimed reimbursements for at the last Christmas do. You never see them giving Labour Soc shit for the green tea expenses at their LGBT therapy sessions, or whatever the hell it is they do.

No matter – I gave her the Ol’ Snoggers charm and managed to have it struck from the record. God I’m handsome. God she fancies me.

Finished up by 12 p.m. so time for a quick one in George IV before lunch with Tash. Then fired off a few tweets I wrote yesterday about pronouns and people in dinghies, and drifted into a lovely afternoon nap listening to the gentle ping of all those likes and retweets.

I love this game.

Wednesday 28 September

A big day. Tonight’s our inaugural Welcome Drinks for prospective Tory Soc members. It's always a nice venue, we prefer the National Liberal Club, and generally like to chuck a grand or so behind the bar for Prosecco and cigars from last year's membership coffers. The spotty gimps that actually follow politics usually congregate in one corner, talking about – God knows, macroeconomic inflation or something – whilst me and the chaps try and corner the new girls.

The usual craic is to ignore the freshers and try and pull the Masters students, especially the French ones, but this year I’m the races.

Thursday 29 September behave myself and put on a professional front now that I’m El Presidente.

Fuck me. Monumental headache–puked a perfectly formed Big Mac back up into the sink when I got in last night. And had to delete some rather incriminating drunken images from the Society Instagram of a certain South American Steven sodomising the statue of Gladstone in the Dining Room. Thankfully the tie round his head obscured his likeness from the general public, and I like to think old Gladstone, as a Liberal after all, would have approved of such adventurous gymnastic feats were he alive today.

Speaking of which, I was just about to despair that this was about the only sodomy that did occur last night when I awoke to a Insta DM from a certain ‘Katarina’, Russian Economics postgrad par excellence, and heir to a rather hefty gas pipeline empire. Managed to decipher the previous messages from last night and it seems not only did we mingle at the welcome drinks, but I’ve managed to wrangle myself a date…tapas in Mayfair tomorrow.

Hangover cures, anyone?

Anyway, there was I thinking I could use my usual game and cunningly weasel my way back to hers – as is customary for Ol’ Snoggers – or at the very least have a few flirty drinks and some slap-up Spanish tucker.

But the more I (like a gentleman) asked about her life, the quicker it became obvious that her family business dabbles into a rather wide array of industries. Some of them not so much fossil fuels as firearms – bloody big ones. The type that fly through the air with a skull and crossbones stamped in fluorescent green on the side (hence, I gathered, the need for a security guard from the Neolithic Age). The same one who, just as the wine was flowing and Kat and I leaned in for a candlelit kiss, grabbed me by the scruff of the Ralph Lauren and unceremoniously dragged me across the room – forks, flowers, and chorizo flying everywhere.

Chucked out into the street with a black eye and bloody shirt, I ran as far as my little legs could carry me. Specifically to the nearest off-licence, grabbed a bottle of Smirnoff and a packet of Marlborough reds, and slunk away into the London night.

I’ll stick to the French next time.

Around 9 p.m. we have a disgraced former backbencher come and do a speech, usually already half-cut, so the trick is get the Insta pics done quickly and get them stumbled out the door into a cab before they start getting a bit too ‘friendly’ with the waitresses. Anyway, off to Angelo’s to get the hair freshly curtained, pick up the suit from the dry cleaners and we’re off to

Saturday 1 October

Well cover me in shit and call me a Socialist; that's the last time I date anyone without researching their family WELL in advance. I suppose, in retrospect, the first clue was the bald 6’5” gorilla, complete with Terminator sunglasses and earpiece, who chaperoned her to the table and stood in the corner of the restaurant, hands folded.

Join us next time as President Snogglesworth makes his termly pilgrimage north to visit his chums in Cambridge – the heartland of Toryism – where he participates in a debate with their Conservative society, and is forced into a compromising position involving a toffee apple during a Rugby initiation ceremony…

LSE is not the ultimate evil

Alina Chen Opinion Editor

Illustrated by Noora Belcaid

At e Beaver, we are ooded by criticisms about LSE. It never stops: from toxic academic pressure to disastrous mental health support, e Beaver has a unique insight into the myriad of other student complaints the School’s management fails to attend to. I remember sitting around the table in the Media Centre at one of our meetings, re ecting on the noticeable lack of complimentary or at the very least approving articles about LSE. As a third-year student, I wonder: has life at LSE genuinely been all that bad? So much so that we have not had a single positive account of the student experience in the university newspaper? is article, then, could be a rst.

I wrote this article a er leaving my philosophy class on a random Tuesday evening. Walking down a rain-soaked

Kingsway where the Christmas lights had just been put up, I suddenly felt very lucky to be a part of this chaotic city and this screwed-up – yet somehow still lovable – institution we call LSE. I promise this isn't a repetition of those slogans that LSE puts up during Freshers’ Week every year in a desperate attempt to cultivate some sense of community. For all the complaints I have (and I must confess, there are many), I can't deny that there are things I’ve liked about my time here.

I genuinely relish that sensation of having le a class, lecture, or discussion group feeling like my mind has soaked up the interesting ideas and thoughts of others. I feel lucky to be inside the warm and fuzzy atmosphere of a class where the conversation bounces between friendly banter and intellectual deliberation; where the teacher gets excited and swears a little and we sit around and laugh together at some funky philosophical argument. is is where the fondness comes from. is is what I imagined university would be like. It's the human side of LSE that is the most moving.

While this eeting sentiment will most likely evaporate with the next traumatic econ problem set, I think these tender moments are still worth documenting. And perhaps life is just like that – made up of many tiny moments where the sweet gratitude beats the bitter grievances. It could just be that chat with a friend over a cup of hot chocolate. Or that one night out that you got just a tiny bit drunk and started dancing at Tuns. Or that one o ce hour where everything confusing about the lecture nally started to make sense. Or that one catch-up session with a tutor who has been witnessing your personal growth since rst year… All of a sudden, you feel thankful to be here, thankful that LSE brought everyone together, thankful that you are a part of this.

It is not only the people that make or break your university experience, some onus also lies on you. If you feel su ocated by peer pressure around nding an internship, have you considered associating with a di erent crowd of people? If you aren't enjoying your course, and nd structural issues within the institution. is is also not to say that all problems can be xed by the simple solutions that I have mentioned. e point is that, ultimately, you are the one in charge. It is up to you what your uni life looks like and up to you how you will remember your time here. I think LSE has yourself hating how stale and mechanical your classes are, have you considered changing your course, or one of your modules, or taking up an interesting outside option that keeps you going? If you think there is a lack of support, have you tried proactively building a connection with professors, mentors, peer supporters, and counsellors? If you feel drained by the workload, have you considered taking a step back for a couple days? is is by no means to say that LSE cannot make student life more enjoyable, or that they are not complicit in perpetuating enough in store already to make it enriching and memorable.

I can't say that LSE is the perfect university for me – I could see myself enjoying life at other universities. But I can say that I made the most of what my eighteen-year-old self chose and what the university has o ered. I have grown, come out of my shell, changed my degree, tried di erent lifestyles that I never imagined myself trying, dyed my hair blonde, joined the cult of e Beaver… And honestly, it hasn't been too bad. Blaming LSE for everything is too easy.