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There are Two Types of Tabs: A Wedding in Cambridge.

 I'm in Cambridge, on the bowling green of Trinity College, sipping a flute of fizz. About me are ancient red brick walls and tall, neat hedges. The lawn is tufty, tousled with yellow grass and, at least initially, speckled with fox shit. By the time we're all sitting down, the poo has been magically spirited away by an invisible army of college staff.  At the far end, beyond a raised embankment and small wall, is the river Cam, ferrying an endless flotilla of posh boys with poles and, on at least one occasion, a hen party, replete with an inflatable man which, credit where it's due, is an excellent buoyancy aid. You can probably use the penis as a workable rudder. High above this, latticed by the branches of the trees, are two stone eagles, regarding everything as imperiously as I do, and beyond them a perfect blue sky, a faultless canopy over an immortal English summer's day.  I'm here for a wedding. Adam Turns, a man I have seen paint with his testes, and stake a...

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