A couple weeks ago, cycling along King’s Parade, I suddenly found my path blocked by a curious breed of wild, cycle-bell-resistant pedestrians. I could hear excited calls of ‘Charles!’ and ’the cheating bastard!’, coupled with the occasional ‘sorry!’, as people rammed my bike, attempting to squeeze past me. For a millisecond I considered heading back and finishing my latest essay. Then I decided to follow the crowd to Market Square.

The square was flanked by guards and entirely fenced off, forcing the crowd to gather around it: phones held high, mouths slightly open, eyes fixed on a man in a fancy brown jacket. He reminded me of an old, wise sheep, and I thought it seemed unnecessary to have so many guards protecting the crowds from him. But then I realised quite how indecisive he was: instead of just choosing a quick wrap and getting on with his day, he studied each stall in extreme detail. So, I figured, the guards must be trying to prevent his indecision from spreading to the masses and causing a societal collapse.

“I spotted a peculiar crowd, standing very straight with their shoulders back”

After a while, the man approached the crowd and started shaking hands with people. In fact, so many people shook his hand that I felt obliged to ask the guy next to me who the old man was, exactly. And upon finding out that old man was ‘our future king?!’, I tried to explain that I only ever got around to watching, like, two episodes of The Crown, because it just wasn’t my thing! Then I noticed the guy next to me staring at the man’s head.

‘Don’t you just want to touch his hair?’ he said dreamily.

I did. But alas, before I got the chance, Charles was gone.

* * *

The following day I spotted a peculiar crowd, standing very straight with their shoulders back. They were queuing for Jordan Peterson’s talk at the Union and I dutifully devoted a millisecond of silence for my essay, before joining them.

“I stared at the brown leather chair Jordan had been sitting in, wondering what I was doing with my life”

Five minutes passed until I grew tired of standing by myself in the cold and started talking to three friendly-looking guys next in front of me. One of them made a great Jordan Peterson/Kermit the Frog impression. The other waved around a pocket knife, joking about stabbing Jordan and blaming it on two glasses of wine. The third said he should really be covering his face because he couldn’t be ‘seen with all the fascists of Cambridge’. They were all very impressed when I revealed that I had once read half of ‘12 Rules for Life’ (prompted by my grandfather developing a severe case of Jordan-obsession).

Behind me were some less impressed-looking guys, clutching copies of Jordan’s books. One of them was muttering ‘we’re not getting in’. Indeed, people kept jumping the queue. And after 1.5 hours of queuing, when we were only a few meters from the entrance to the Union building, we were told that it had ‘reached its maximum capacity. Very sorry.’

Probably a hundred people were left outside in the cold, and most of them hung around like a bunch of hungry ducks in the hope of somehow getting a glimpse of Jordan Peterson through the slammed door (me included).

Eventually, though, the three guys headed off to ‘smoke weed and watch the Jordan livestream’ and I politely declined the invitation, having spotted a friend of mine staring longingly at the closed door (a copy of ‘Maps of Meaning’ under her arm). Together, we went to the Orator and half-heartedly watched the livestream, whilst she practised her pre-prepared question for Jordan (in case he were to suddenly show up).

When the talk was over and Jordan still had not shown in the Orator, we decided to make our way to the main chamber, wading through a sea of happy Jordan fans. Inside, I stared at the brown leather chair Jordan had been sitting in and wondered what I was doing with my life. My Jordan-fan friend, on the other hand, walked straight up to the front table and grabbed the glass he had drunk from. I asked if she was planning to lick it - to really connect with Jordan on a molecular level - but apparently the glass was ‘symbolic’, because ‘Jordan uses a glass to demonstrate the existence of objectivity in one of his debates’ (or something).

Jordan-fan friend walked straight out of the Union, into the dark - glass in hand - and I followed her, before heading north up the hill. And when I finally got back to my very-late essay, I saw pictures of Jordan - in the Orator - on Instagram. He was smiling widely: clearly aware that he was sitting right where we’d been sitting, breathing air we’d breathed.