University Life As a Fresher in England.. DRUNK EDUCATION

A year or so ago, I can’t quite remember the exact details - caused by the memory exhausting effects ofoverindulging in one-pound-beers and two-pound-kebabs - I started this strange phenomenon called university. A letter was posted to me in the summer and I was in. So I told my mother, ‘Mum I got in to University!’  To which she replied ‘great! Now let’s get you out of here as soon as possible son.’ Well, to be honest, she didn’t say the latter part of the sentence but deep down  I knew she was already having visions of lightened loads of washing and sparkling kitchen surfaces which would last her beyond a mere day. Later that night we (my mother, sister and I) went out for drinks to celebrate my success. ‘Well done my little brother’ my blonde sister had said with a flash of teeth, ‘but your university is far less renowned than mine’. Again, she may not have divulged the second part of her speech, but, as I have said, details of the past are mixed in with several hundred shots of Sambuca and around the same figure in beers and, what I like to call, ‘alco-floss’ – alcoholic drinks which contain excessive amounts of sugar, congealing on your teeth giving them a horrible sticky coating. I said ‘thanks’ to my highly educated sister then picked up my drink, pivoting it on my lips and pouring some in- I would soon find that alcohol was consumed in a whole different manner at university, the slow pace which I had adopted over my non-legal years would ultimately be frowned upon by many of my university peers.

A few bedding, cleaning, cooking, studying, entertaining products later, I was out of my constricting town and thrown into the freedom of city life. ‘Bye’ and my family were gone. Leaving me standing in the car park with my new things and these strange new people that coincidently all seemed to be the same age as me - except the thirty-something-year-old who lived in the flat above. As I socially felt my way around Uni life I often found myself having meaningless conversations with people in my flat that I didn’t particularly like, they all seemed to start with the same regulation questions: ‘So, where abouts are you from?’ It was imperative to establish where the other person was from - well to be honest I couldn’t care less, it was the least confusing question so I asked it first. They would answer the initial bullshit and expand the conversation further, and then it would come to an unexpected halt. In which case objects around the room became hugely fascinating to comment on – ‘nice kitchen surfaces don’t you think?’

 ‘Drink anyone?’ and the binging began, loosening up anyone who had failed to socialise from the start. At the bar drinks would be thrown at you, literally. A trip to the toilet was quite an eye opener - several half naked men Irish dancing in the urinals - no one seemed to notice, so I fell into place and urinated next to a large welsh fella who was doing his own rendition of ‘singing in the rain’ whilst kicking small amounts of piss at everyone. I smiled my approval and went back to the bar. A purple substance was thrown at me. ‘Snakebite?’ I thought that was just an urban myth, a drink which paralysed your mind functions sending you into a jungle of triple vision and attractive ladies. ‘Down it!’ Someone shouted at me. ‘Down it?’ I was confused, down in one? Can I not just drink it normally? ‘Down it, down it, down it!’ The chant became increasingly intense to a point where the Welsh singer jumped onto the bar and ate his pint, this was some form of student initiation, so I downed it. Thereafter the night does not exist in my memory. A week of this continued and then instead of going out six nights a week, we cut it down to just four.

                After filtering through the small talk with hundreds of people I finally discovered some legitimate friends, fifteen or so lads that all shared the same interests as me; beer, football, pro evolution, women, going out on the lash and the occasional cross-dress. The Norton Court era had begun. We were at the peak of our teenage years and had been discarded by our families, were we supposed to have matured into respectable young men? Gentlemen who would always put the toilet seat back down? - I looked out of my flat window one night and saw my friend Doyley cycling naked around the car park - No. We were wild tigers who had just been released back into the forests of Bengal, and this time - no matter how potent the tranquiliser was - we were not being recaptured.

                As Nortoneers our nights were extremely blurred, far too blurred to distinguish one from any other. Ocean and Oceana were weekly nights out on Tuesdays and Thursdays and, although about a mile apart from another, they were often recollected as the same place by the end of the week. It was fun. We often went abroad, Prague, Paris, Poland - places in which we continued our binging habits, albeit in more of a cultured way; replacing large quantities of lager with wine and vodka, and swapping our usual unhealthy kebab for fries and mayonnaise.

Up in our penthouse apartment, which belonged to our incredibly rich friend, we looked over an unprepared Paris; we were continental kings with our glasses of red wine and our T-shirt tans. After contemplating the world for several minutes Beanhead opened his mouth and proceeded to be sick into a neighbouring flower bed bellow. Fuck it - I didn’t want to be cultured anyway - as I looked at my green friend sympathetically. After a wave of French abuse we headed back inside, not so much kings anymore but peasants, we had been overthrown by threats of ‘Policia!’ and eviction.

I woke up in my bed one day and realised that I’d been out the night before. It seemed rather cold as I poked a foot out to examine the air. I opened my eyes and looked around. Shit. My mattress had somehow found its way onto my hall’s car park and I was accompanied by at least three of my friends and bad breath.  ‘Morning’, one of them grumbled from somewhere down the row of mattresses – at least the time of day was now established - all I could make out was rogue brown hair poking out the top of a flowery duvet. After locating some saliva which had diminished heavily overnight I returned the comment in no specific direction and continued to carry my pit back to my hole, being observed from many windows around the halls - I waved.

Several clubbing nights later and we were out again. But today was different, today was the varsity football game. Four bottles of vodka and we were all feeling the alcohol taking control; swaying from side to side in the stand almost in unison, chanting hostility at the Nottingham University fans. Ben ran past me and onto the pitch – this seemed quite odd as I watched engrossed in his actions. The game was over and he had, in his state of intoxication, decided it would be best for everyone if he were to score the final goal of the night. I watched him stumble into the penalty area where the ball waited. He missed. The second attempt and he found the target, thank fuck. The stewards were closing in so he scaled a nearby wall and disappeared into a pub. Once again my memory fails me and I am unable to portray the rest of the night’s events.

So, as you can imagine, when it came to the final day of term everyone was partied out and rather sombre. Well no, in fact we were all drunk, ‘Drink the bar dry’ one of the Student union’s many helpful schemes which allowed people with their very last tenner to get drunk for the very last time - who needs food? It was an enjoyable first year at uni although much was unfortunately forgotten. University is a place coated with alcohol and education, an oxymoron in its own right, some would never be able to come to terms with the contrasting elements to furthering your career prospects, those who understand could only have experienced it first hand. [Note to self -Delete final paragraph if graduation isn’t achieved].