The End Of Freshers Week

Posted: November 1, 2012 in As If I Actually Ended Up Going To Uni, One More For Love

It is 1am. And I am on a bench.

I am in Wolverhampton. And tonight is the last night of Fresher’s Week.

And I am on a bench.


At 1am.

This is wrong.

It wasn’t meant to be this way! I tried to go out tonight! With people! But people are strange. Especially Polish people! Polish people are lovely, but fickle. The Polish gang that randomly hangs out drinking in my kitchen reliably informed me that their plan was to go out, leading me to wash, and to wear shoes. Three hours later… They bought doughnuts.


The start of a night in. The settee revolution! Tea-bag terrorism! Prawn sandwich… es! I decide to give them an ultimatum, and feel the comforting ghost of Roy Keane on my shoulder.

“That’s it then, I’m off. I’m just gonna go out. See what happens.”

“On your own?”

Judyta is Polish, and lovely, and heartwarmingly concerned.


“Aren’t you scared?”

I smile.

“Nah. Would you be scared if you looked like this?”

I point at my face.

She smiles.


I leave, possibly having just been blazed, and walk through Wolverhampton hoping to stumble across a stumbling group of stumblers. Maybe then I could have my night out.

I do not stumble.

I want to stumble.

I wait.

I stop waiting.

And sit down.

On a bench.

And wait.

It is now 1am. And I am depressed. This night’s been a complete waste! I really wanted to club!

Hang on.

I want to club? In no way is that right. I think back, and recall my reluctant freshness. I’ve actually enjoyed Freshers Week! And I want to carry on! This is all Trucker’s fault! And My Brother’s Wife! They encouraged me to get the full uni experience! To go clubbing in Freshers’ Week! To get down with the kids!


I have got down. And it feels good, but low.


I sigh, and remember the old days. When I was young. When I spent evenings alone. Watching the oven. Playing Dr. Mario. I miss Mario. But not Winans. He just didn’t want to know. Found it quite rude.

I sigh again. But for a bit longer. Just to kill some time. The week replays in my head like that goal Ryan Giggs scored against Arsenal. It’s done. It’s over. The debaucherous week of unadulterated hedonism that typifies university life. I’ve done it. And with most of my vital organs relatively intact. And I didn’t need any energy drinks to get through it. I didn’t need to use the Boost to get through. I smile, and decide that there’s probably nothing wrong with the G-Diffuser. But then something hits me, and it’s not the drunk bloke annoying some bloke in a burger van.

Have I really done it?

Is it mission accomplished? Or just mission complete?

I think back. And write a list.


I tried out for the volleyball team.

I became the worst player on the volleyball team.

I met a bloke from London.

I pulled a girl.

I pulled a guy.

I was shown some windows in a gorgeous girl’s bedroom.

I went to space.

I got a gig.

I made friends with a small chaplain. And engineered a situation where I can forever greet him with a Futurama quote.

I became a cooking teacher.

I thought of Jim Carrey at the same time as someone else.

I drank a bottle of alcohol.

I danced.

I showered.

I ached.

I finish reading my list. And smile. This is definitely mission accomplished. Now I can go home. I can play Dr. Mario! I’m free! I can be an old man again! And to hell with the consequences!

I tell a burger van man that I won’t pay that much for his burgers.

And smile.

I walk home.

And stumble.


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