I realise that I always make innuendo, and talk about weird masturbation practices. This is often the reason why the uni paper censor everything I write. I try to make political allusions but it is always lost in the dirge of it being some kind of sexual practice between two hideous politicians. Gordon Brown and Anne Widdecombe, David Blunkett and Ed ‘Wallace’ Miliband.

I can’t help but feel David should have won. Not just because he’s obviously a natural leader and someone I would vote for, but at no point does he ever resemble a plasticine model with the voice of a bloke from Last of the Summer Wine.

Sex is something that, for me, is easy to talk about. I realise for a lot of people they’d rather read War and Peace or shave off their scalp and eat their hair, skin and skull than talk about sex. We’ve all been in similar situations. I get a bit like it with shaving. I have such pathetic facial hair that I shave about once a week. I’m 20. Although this is pathetic, I just deal with it, and hope that the bastard follicles feel like taking some ecstasy and going into hyper mode and sprouting me a full six foot matted bird’s nest by the time I’m 21. There’s hope, albeit as false as Edward VIII’s love for Hitler. No wonder he ‘abdicated’. Cheeky parliament, always fiddling around with England’s only tourist attraction; Monarchy.

I think it’s because, as a medical student, sex is just something I study. A necessary process in the circle of life. It’s like wheels. Bare with me. Not the fact it’s covered in rubber, although to prevent the dreaded STI of a hideous and lifelong affliction; a child, a rubber is needed. Anyway, I was trying to get at the fact that you couldn’t drive a car without wheels, you’d probably blow up your engine and incinerate yourself, which obviously has it’s downsides, firstly you’re probably dead, and secondly, you’re rubbish boy racer motor is worth nothing as scrap when I come and nick it to pay the rent. Might be able to use your powdered remains as a prize in a sporting contest between England and Australia though.  And just like the fact that you can’t  drive without wheels, you can’t repopulate the earth without sex. Well you can, but there’s something very impersonal about IVF. It’s a wonderful invention, but it’s also not as wondrous as creating life biologically and naturally.

People give test tube babies are hard time, and it’s not really justified. There are some pretty weird naturally conceived idiots out there. Vinnie Jones for example; absolute nutcase. In fact most footballers are pretty backwards. Considering the fact they get a lot of sex (see Peter Crouch’s talk about virginity for a reference, as well as the list of prostitutes they all cheat on their women with) they really are a pathetic bunch. Their children are going to be so backwards they’ll be hitting each other with clubs, using sex grunts as language and going down the zoo for a bite of lunch.

I guess that I’m a bit of a pervert. I can’t help it, but I am going to try not to write similes that just revolve around coitus, because that’s about as mature as getting your dick out in a classroom and cumming onto the hair of the girl sitting in front of you.

I promise that’ll be the last time I ever ejaculate something that crude onto the internet. Or maybe not…

The normal response to passing an exam may be to go out and celebrate near to where you live. Not quiet, by any means, you would normally make sure you remembered absolutely none of it, with no idea where you are when you wake up, why there’s blood all over your face or in fact why you’re now wearing a red lace thong instead of boxers. You trudge home, happy in the knowledge you celebrated spectacularly.

I, however, ended up going to Edinburgh, via Leeds. It was kind of pre-planned. Nobody goes to those kind of lengths on a whim. I didn’t just decide to go to Scotland, much unlike the original inmates of Australia, who went there because they had no choice.

I drank a lot of beer, but more jagerbombs than I could imagine. I’m pretty sure I spent about £30 in jagerbombs and managed to pass out. I truly and utterly fucked over all of caffeinekind and managed to do the opposite of what it’s meant to induce in me. I played god, kind of, and now I feel proud. Of course at the time I had no idea I had been so divine, and felt very much the opposite, as I deposited, what could have been a new life form spawned out of life giving abilities, but is more likely to have been the beer and a burger I had had as a meal a few hours before.

To wake up on a coach at 9am, seemingly without your bag and just a phone and a wallet is slightly perplexing. I looked to my left to see a girl with two buckets of sick alongside her and pen on her face. I decided that, she, like me, had had a good night, then she turned slightly in her stupor to reveal a wonderfully ornate and brilliantly drawn Hitler moustache, at which I point I decided she had outdone me in the fun stakes.

I went whisky tasting, which, don’t get me wrong, is lovely, but essentially, it all tastes the same. ‘You should be picking up the scent of bananas’ she says. No. I get the taste of whisky and the death and decay of the insides of my body, not bananas, and anyway how the hell do bananas get into whisky, you distill it and put it in a big barrel. At no point did you say they put half the world’s bananas into the barrel. Either, you’re lying to me, or illegally importing fruit. If you are doing the second option, why the hell did you decide to import fruit? There’s no money in it. Heroin? Yes. Not plums and kiwi fruit.

As I returned to London yesterday, once more I was presented with a wonderful Hitler moustache, this time, the person involved had tried to take the emphasis away from the moustache by colouring in their nose. An odd tactic, but surprisingly it worked. Then as I sat down next to a man with his hands taped to his balls I prepared myself for the hedonistic lifestyle of home. Students, eh?