O Week

The first week of the university year is awesome if you're eighteen which is exactly why it's shit if you're in your mid-twenties. It opens the door and welcomes all sorts of riff-raff with open arms and vomit stained red carpet.

There might be a rock band outside the entrance to the library. Back in my day, libraries were quiet. Indeed, that was the point of libraries.

That was a particular incident that annoyed this author but what is far more threatening to my faith in humanity is the inevitable influx of young men who seem to be clones of each other. These robots will invariably be dressed in short rugby shorts which cover just enough of their lower bodies to hide the hand(s) they insist on keeping down there. Yes, I do think you're a douchebag so I guess I do deserve that look you're giving me. I know, it is hard to comprehend that I have enough self-worth to form my own identity outside of the generic cultural signposts. Anyway, they will cover themselves in Axe body spray and go to student bars to drink and swear loyalty to cheap (but still over-priced) terrible beer (more on that later), exchange elaborate hand gestures and listen to their favourite Phil Edwards songs. They will publicly plan to "go fuck some freshers" several nights a week and describe their exploits the following day with the frightfully general terms of those too afraid to look even slightly more thoughtful than their counterparts. You may hear phrases like, "It was hell classic, eh. Fully sick." This language is so entrenched in the heads of these idiots and so universally applicable that two of these androids could be talking to each other about two different things and not realise it.

Avoid these people at all cost.