The visit last month of your esteemed and revered leader caused somewhat of a stir amongst the graduate student community (by which I mean, of course, a couple of my friends).

To be rather more accurate, the stir was not so much a consequence of the visit, but was, instead, a result of the exuberant protests.

That the apocryphally spineless and spoilt undergraduate community at Stanford would rise up against the oppressive tyranny of the Bush administration seemed to be a positive thing for many of my peers.

(Personally, I disagree. I suspect that the posturing of protest is just that: A posture. It’s an excuse to wave around signs, shake a tambourine and show the cute girl who sits behind you in Math 51 that you’re, like, political. But that’s just me.)

Apparently, we all think that you’re apathetic about the political process. That you’re rich, you’re privileged and that you only care about what’s going on in your bubble world of Trees, Bands and Facebooks.

And so, the little petulant (almost toddler tantrum-like) spark that you showed the other week was greeted with a mumble of solidarity and several expressions of pride. Go Stanford.

Along with a mild disapproval of your anti-Bush antics (the sharper of you may have spotted this from some between-the-lines reading of the above), I have to confess that I’m not really a fan of the whole spoilt-Stanford-brat meme.

There are a couple of reasons for this. First off, I really don’t see how anyone could argue that you lot are disconnected from the world around you. It’s terrifying just how much you all seem to care both about the people of the world and about the padding of your resumes.

On any given day it’s virtually impossible to navigate your way through White Plaza without being accosted either by someone trying to serenade you with an awful a cappella remix or by someone attempting to get your support for the local leper colony.

I admire this dedication. I really do. It adds a twist of gut-wrenching guilt to the everyday misery of life. Plus, you know, it helps the children.

Leaving aside the wholesome goodness of your average Farm-dweller, one can object to the Stanford brat theory on other grounds: You’re just not that good at being privileged.

Any thoughts held by a casual visitor that she was entering a bastion of the upper echelons of society as she stepped past the Oval into the Quad would be swiftly dispelled on noticing how its denizens dress. Quite frankly, none of you clothe yourselves in a manner befitting your ostensible status — flip flops and hoodies are just a little declasse, darling.

What’s more, you people have no idea what the arrogance of privilege can really look like. When it comes to affectation, your (former) colonial overloads are real champions.

I am out of the country at the moment, back in England for a Cambridge reunion. Well, it’s not so much a reunion as a frightening perpetuation of an air of superiority. Tomorrow afternoon I’m getting my degree upgraded. For free.

Since time immemorial, Oxbridge (= Oxford + Cambridge) has been promoting Bachelors degrees to a Masters seven years after matriculation. And what do you have to do for this honor? Nothing.

By virtue of the fact that I’ve stayed alive since graduating, I will be the proud owner of an M.A. by 1200 GMT on Saturday.

When I combine this sort of nonsense with our incredible fondness for dressing up in dinner jackets and evening gowns and swanning around sipping cheap sparkling wine like it’s Bollinger ‘88, it’s hard for anywhere else to appear more pretentious.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against pretension. In fact, one of the reasons I came to Stanford (along with the fact that nowhere else let me in) is that I was hoping to seamlessly transition from one set of rich kids to another.

But, alas, Stanford: Just not posh enough. Instead of swanky pretension, one has to deal with earnestness and appalling taste. The former is considerably more irritating than the latter (can’t stand people who care), though I really fucking hate flip flops.

Still, I suppose it could be worse; when it comes to bad taste and sincerity, no one holds a candle to Berkeley.

Email navins@stanford.edu if you want to dress up in evening wear and celebrate the birthday of some long dead Lady with obscure toasts and bizarre rituals.