The time is right
It's time for you
For you to play your game
People are coming; everyone's trying
Trying to be the best that they can
When they're going for,
Going for Gold
I'd call this 'The Morning After The Night Before', but then I'd have to assign that title to every one of these mornings. My alarm prompty woke my from a slumber, and ended a distressing dream in which the culprits of the Floor 3 drinking session were threatened in a chilling newspaper article. There was a grainy picture of some of us in the kitchen, with members of staff from Geography promising to deal swift punishement to those involved. I decided to wake up and head to breakfast, trying to maintain some dignity by collecting my food in a manner of integrity. For all the mixed reviews of the Union's meals, their bacon strangely managed to avoid criticism. For me, it lost its heat quicker than Britney Spears, and was practically inedible by the time it reached the dining room. The scrambled egg was a mixed bag, but credit where credit's due, they delivered with the sausage and fried bread. I prepared to take my seat when I was called over by Aberystwyth and Lanfair PG. The atmosphere was beginning to improve notably, with new friendships forming amidst the old alliances, and absolutely no-one behaving twattily. Unfortunately, due to the aforementioned bacon problems, and the absurd amount of scrambled egg I was given, I struggled through my breakfast with a quite shocking lethargy. Alas, Aberystwyth and Lanfair PG could wait no longer, and headed back to Kilvey. All week people were great in showing patience with me, as I often babbled about little of interest, and repeated myself more than a Catherine Tate script. But I was particularly delighted that my addition to the trip caused such little tension. After Aberystwyth's departure, Newport and Cardiff again invited me over, a trend that would continue with stunning regularity. On the occasions where I left Aberystwyth's faction to talk to Cardiff and Newport's regime, or vice versa, I was never given playground-like earache for it, proving that students are fully adult in their attitudes and actions. Until they get a drink in them. But more on that story later.
Mixed Bag: Scrambled egg
8:45am. After another meeting in the frightening lecture theatre, we were dispatched to smaller tutorial rooms for our first assignment. Once we found them, of course. When the group got to Swansea it was split into two clear groups, Red and Blue, with the two only combining for meals and unauthorised nights on the town. I was drawn in the red group, with luminaries such as Newport, Abersytwyth, Ffestiniog, Llandudno and Port Talbot. Fortuitously, I was in the opposite group to Prestatyn. Prestatyn scares me. Anyway, the draw lands me with a tricky project, the broad topic of Welsh identity. Staff members Anglesey & Holyhead are on hand to give advice on the project, which will run until tomorrow night's - shudder - presentations.
[*insert fear[bold][italics][dread]]
There were a host of misunderstandings on the road to Swansea, and one of them - the crucial one - involved Tuesday night's talk. The general consensus among the group beforehand was that everyone in the Red Group was under direct orders to speak on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday night, in front of 60 fellow students and a handful of staff. I wasn't the only one fretting about this (although I'm willing to bet that I was the only one to pop a beta blocker in the class that morning), but it still seemed destined. Holyhead, noting our concerns, agreed to speak to a co-staff member to confirm details of the presentations (I believe Wrexham was swiftly consulted), and came back with the news I'd been dreading. All of us were to talk, she'd been led to believe. Oh dear. How the frig do I get out of this?
The sub-group was divided into sub-sub-groups, and one of the most charismatic members of the Red Group, Llandudno, immediately immediately began suggesting topics. Our mission, should we choose to accept it, was to think of four questions related to Welsh identity, and after a selection process which resembled the school football teams, ie. I was left at the end, I aligned myself with Welshpool and Talgarth for a three-person project. The question being, "To what extent is Welshness represented in public spaces?" Since this is where the work officially began, I guess I should send out a disclaimer to any team members who read this. I'm sorry for not contributing more to the projects. Not so much the physical ones, as everyone was allocated a pretty even distribution of tasks and I pulled my weight on Wednesday and Thursday (literally, in the case of Hansom's Handbags). But on Monday and Tuesday I don't think I did enough for 'Team Anglesey & Holyhead'. I could list a range of excuses, like my fatigue from the bus journey (bus-lag?), or my stream of late nights, or the levels of alcohol I partook, but everyone else was in the same boat. Such excuses would be as hollow as a 3-0 England victory over Andorra. What I will say, however, is that the presentation panic (alliteration) left me utterly exhausted before I even stepped on the bus at the Boyd Orr. By the time I woke up on Monday, I was in a state of resigned condemnation, hardly the ideal circumstances for an 6-hour trek on the streets of Swansea badgering terrified locals (see later). I just hope I added enough contributions to the project that Welshpool and Talgarth didn't resent me.
Hollow : Andorra victory
10:30am. Game time. Welshpool, Talgarth and I take to the streets armed with pens, paper and purpose. Our purpose was to determine how Welsh the public spaces of Swansea were (after 5,000 words this blog has finally reached the intended subject), by examining famous buildings, visiting parks and quizzing puzzled museum receptionists. And after that, interviewing members of the public. Oh, did I mention - that's the other thing I 'can't do'? The morning's investigation was fairly interesting, with the most notable sights being the lack of Welsh translations on shop windows, restaurants and even old war memorials. It seems, ladies and gentlemen, that the Welsh language would be dead and buried in Swansea if it wasn't for the road-sign campaign the Government launched in recent years. Every direction was signed in English and Welsh, yet the people didn't seem to speak it, there was no sign of it in locally-run or national businesses and even the Welsh flag was conspicuous by its absence (save for the trusty County Buildings). The simple deduction was that Welsh just wasn't that popular in Swansea, and that the people look no pride in being Welsh themselves. But before we jumped to ridiculous conclusions, Iraq dossier-style, we had to visit the National Waterfront Museum to get the lowdown on what it truly means to be Welsh...
Starting with this guy. He was everywhere, coming top of a 'Favourite Welsh Icon' poll organised by Newport's group, and viewed as something of a local hero. He could almost be described as the Sydney Devine of Wales, he's that popular. After consulting a trusty receptionist, we established that this guy (can't remember his name, um...Thomas someone?) was one of the most beloved figures in the Welsh hierarchy. To find the others, we were directed to a line of photo-portraits of famous Welsh celebrities. Among them were Charlotte Church, Gavin Henson (?), Dame Shirley Bassey and the mercurial Ryan Giggs. This was all very interesting, but it did call into question the Welshness of Swansea. After all, how many of these guys even speak Welsh, let alone profess to be a flag-bearer for the language? Church throws in the odd word with two Ds and four Fs, but tends to stick to one F, if you know what I'm saying. And no, the word isn't frig. It should be, though.
Mercurial: Giggs
The receptionist also directed us to a load of big concrete letters outside the museum. I'd like to show you a few pictures of the aforementioned letters. but unfortunately, I couldn't be bothered taking any. However, Talgarth worked out that they were initials of past industrial products from the city. Welsh intials. So they at least nationalised that. After a gloriously tasty ice-cream (when you've had plain water all day and feel hotter than an Albert Square iron, anything tastes glorious), we headed down to the Waterfront, where Newport and others were enjoying a well-earned lunch themselves. Our team leaders, Anglesey and Holyhead had arranged to meet us here at 1:30. When 1:30 came and went, we began to speculate on their whereabouts. Had they got lost? Was their lunch too leisurely? It must have been approaching 2:30 when we finally had enough, and got up to leave. "They said they'd meet us at the Museum, so where are they?", propositioned one confused student. Deflated and tired, we headed back to the city centre, passing another museum on our way, the Swansea museum. But wait a minute. You've got to be kidding me...
We'd had our lunch outside the wrong frigging museum, wasting more time than Ainsley Harriet's hair stylist. Anglesey and Holyhead looked rather puzzled until we explained the situation. Luckily, the Museum-related error was not taken as a personal slight on them, or their orienteering skills (which I'm sure are technically decent). But with the delay in mind, we had spent 4 hours in Swansea, had much work still to do, and were feeling increasingly exhausted. Maybe I shouldn't have gone to the Floor 3 kitchen last night. I'm still rather worried that my newspaper exposé dream will come true, like a Sunday Mail investigation on drug laundering. What's drug laundering anyway? Can you cleanse drugs in a washing machine? Might make them less harmful to users.
Faggots, anyone?
I was pondering the presentations all morning. Welshpool and Talgarth felt, as I did, that not everyone would have to talk in front of the Red Group. If our sub-group did four 15-minute talks, and the other sub-groups did similar, a bit of pre-Higher Maths deduces that the evening would last 4 hours, or the equivalent of 8 episodes of Emmerdale. Purgatory, in other words. So maybe we'd do our 4 presentations in front of the sub-group? No problem, you say? But in November of 2005, I scived a tutorial involving talking to 10 people, out of fear and twattiness. My colleague had to do the darned thing herself, and I think I may have wrecked any chances of long-term friendship with her in the process. 15 is 5 more than 10, isn't it? So can I gaurantee a smooth performance tomorrow night, even after all the progress I've made? This is a complicated situation, and complicated situations require detailed thought, analysis and concrete answers. Or failing that, I can show you a picture of Stacy Keibler instead.
Analysis: Keibler
Now comes the fun part. We have to interview members of the public as part of our research, so after I chicken out (predictably), Talgarth volunteers to kick off proceedings. We head onto the new bridge over the river (I think its called the Millenium bridge, as every new structure in this country seems to be called), and search for humans. We have a tough time, actually. Finally, a well-built man lumbers towards us, and after joking with Welshpool that this could be a disaster, Talgarth bravely approaches him. This is a bad idea.
"Excuse me, we're doing a project for our University, can we ask - do you come from Wales yourself?"
"NOOOOOO!"
The man moves to cover his face (we're not Beadle's About, for goodness sake) and stumbles away to the perceived safety of the city centre. He should try Wind Street at midnight, and see how safe that is. Anyway, this incident was a source of much personal amusement to the three of us. Not so much because we had petrified a member of the public with our clipboard capers. Lord knows, I despise having to pass these guys on the way to Buchanan Street Underground on a Friday morning, so I understand the intimidation factor. But the guy was as Welsh as leeks, and even more anti-social. There's something hilarious about a guy recoiling in terror and claiming to be a foreigner in the most Welsh accent since Glyn lit up our screens on Big Brother. I just wish the guy had started singing Arctic Monkeys songs, as Glyn did. Just not in the shower.
Oah Noa!
We decide that this public interviewing business is not worth the mental strife, so after interviewing a much more friendly family of three we decide to "get oudda town", stopping at street corners to take photos of Welsh signs. Again, it must be stressed that the Government and local council are the only people who take Welsh seriously in Swansea. Other than that, it was a staple diet of English, English and more English. Unlike the notches on Faria Alam's bedpost.
5:00pm. I lie on the bed. For a long while. It's so exhausting getting up in the morning, working for 12 hours and swallowing alcohol afterwards, but it's the only way to fulfil my dreams. My dreams are quite simple. I want to cast aside this annoyance of presentations, and prove to myself that I can do them, whether that comes tomorrow or, as is the increasing likelihood, Wednesday. It's just that it feels too early. I haven't had enough preparation, and the subject matter of Welshness is not one of my strong points. Then there's the dream of being able to hold down new friendships. I have friends now, but they know me from way back and they've seen me behave, quite frankly, like a complete tosser in Prestwick. Unless I perform some sort of Blaine-esque stunt, I feel like they'll always view me in a slightly lower stature than the people at Glasgow Uni. If it looked, sounded and acted like an anti-social twat, then it probably still is one. It's perfectly understandable if they think that. But Swansea is an ideal opportunity to meet people who only know the Uni version of me. Then I can be a better person to the ones who stuck by me in Prestwick, and the people in Glasgow can get to know me without having the stigma of Prestwick Academy hovering overhead like a Chinook helicopter, which is a major pollutant anyway. Then there's the dream that I can have a relationship. A straight one, at that. Swansea is highly unlikely to provide me with one, but if I can just build up a bit of confidence here, it can roll on to the future like an iterative equation (Higher Maths). And finally, there's the dream of living in a posh mansion in the Channel Islands with my wife Nerina Pallot, where I could give her flowers and chocolate. Then she could hum for a while. Then I could give her a hug.
Um, yeah, well I went to SUSU after that. Uh, it's not a long walk. Ahem. Anyway...
6:00pm. Dinner. I'm getting very used to the communal atmosphere of Swansea meals, as people mingle freely and sit beside others to provide company. It's really nice here. This is a rather plain entry but it still needs saying, much like when the judge at the High Court speculated that Pete Doherty 'may well have taken some form of illegal substance at one time'.
Doherty: May be on substances
7:15pm. Time for the crucial summit. Anglesey and Holyhead, who were great all week, have gathered everyone in the tutorial room for a discussion on Welshness. But with all due respect to the great nation, I couldn't give a dragon's ass about the Welshness. I need to know if I'm doing a presentation tomorrow. Someone else, I believe it was a member of Newport's faction, asks the crucial question. The question I've waited years to hear. The one that will define my week, and could well define this part of my life. Are we all doing talks?
*drumroll; sound of intensifying heartbeat; sound of cubicle door opening*
"No, it's just 5 of you."
Well, you can't please everyone. But it was a cataclysmically joyous moment, up there with the birth of a child, an accepted marriage proposal or the news that Osama bin Laden has typhoid. All my fears for the week were finally crushed in a moment of intangible relief. An audience of 61 people was far too many to try my first talk in 5 years with. Ironically, thanks to the relaxed nature of the people and my new social confidence, I probably could have managed it without passing out. But due to my lethargy from the journey down, the lack of sleep and the months of worry beforehand, I would still have been a disadvantage to my group. With entry to Honours Geography at stake for these 15 people (men and women of integrity, I might add), this was no time to risk it all for my own inner happiness. I'm not Vladimir Romanov, for pity's sake.
8:30pm. The group disperses for the night, but I've no doubt we'll be seeing each other later. Abersytwyth is organising another highly competitive showcase of pool skills, with contestants including Lanfair PG and Llanelli. Newport then adds fuel to the social fire by inviting me to a poker evening. This throws me, not literally. On the Saturday night before the bus journey, I lost a tense poker game to a 10-yr-old. While Newport assures me that no money will change hands, it's still a daunting prospect to get taken to the cleaners by your peers. The 10-yr-old then beat me in a wrestling match, after a long and close battle, so I didn't really have a good night on Saturday. Luckily, I will not be wrestling Prestatyn tonight. Prestatyn scares me.
10:00pm. With the weight of the presentations off my shoulders, the night of pool is going great, with Abersytwyth taking on Conwy. Conwy is snookered behind the jaws of the bottom left corner. The atmosphere could be cut with a knife, as drinkers gaze over at the unfolding drama. All of a sudden, Newport gets up to leave. The poker game is starting now, apparently. I appreciate the invite and all, but there is a clear schedule clash looming. I say I'll be along later, and intend to watch the conclusion of this thrilling contest. Just at that, Conwy pulls off a near-miracle, flicking the ball off the other jaw of the pocket and along the side cushion to the red. He's a genius. And he looks like a famous footballer, as well.
11:00pm. Ah. Well, one game ran into another, and when I was invited to join proceedings in a tag team match with the unique Llanelli, it was an irresistible offer. Almost as irresistible as Nerina Pallot's pledge to "take you on an adventure" in the Glasgow branch of Fopp. As the audience grows slowly but surely, I am again reminded of the friendly and welcoming atmosphere invoked by the group. It's difficult to believe that a couple of years ago I was a social recluse, yet in a couple of days my outlook on life - and people - has been revolutionised. If anyone is ever feeling left out of the social loop at Glasgow University, they should just sign up for the Geography-2 course to assure their place on this trip. It's better than rehab, whatever rehab constitutes.
Adventure: Nerina
11:30pm. Pembroke Dock closes the pub shockingly early. After some banter about the Smoking Ban (which he claims is "not adversely affecting business"), I leave Abersytwyth, Lanfair PG and Llanelli to locate the poker tournament. Maybe I can just watch or something. The company will be great, but my poker-playing ability would be vastly inferior.
I'm at the entrance to the kitchen. Here we go. No need to psyche myself up, it's only the domain of pots and pans.
"Hello? Sorry, wrong room. Heh."
It was the wrong room.
Unless Newport had accidentally given out a false advertisement (and I highly doubt that, she's not a member of the Punk'd production crew), then the poker must have already concluded. Oh well, I'd find them somewhere. One of the wonderful things about the halls of residence, Kilvey, was that there was always a buzz about the place. You couldn't go 20 seconds without bumping into someone, with some friendly chat usually following. I went up to my room to tidy up a few administrative loose ends, but as I ascended the staircase (or as they say in America, stairwell), I could hear a noise. A very loud noise. The noise of drunkenness. And bizarrely, it sounded like it was coming from...my room?!?
The Floor 4 Party
11:40pm. Some of you know the deal from here. But for those of you who don't, and those of you who were drunk out of your thighs, here is the story of the Floor 4 Party of April 2nd, 2007. I was relieved to discover that the drunkenness was taking place in the kitchen next door, and not in Room 409 as I had feared. But as any co-witnesses will testify, the sound was more unsettling than the unedited demo of 'A Whole New World' from Jordan and Peter Andre (which I actually heard, much to my chagrin). I was hoping for an early night after my exploits of the previous night, but was clearly going to get no kip with this unsightly din next door. So a thought struck me. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Why not turn an unsightly din into a great night out for myself? So I joined 'em. It was still an unsightly din, but it was also a truly unforgettable occasion.
Upon entering the room, I was welcomed by Rhyl, a guy I knew vaugely from Year II tutorials. I had never had a proper relaxed conversation with him, so I took the chance to introduce myself more informally. We were chatting away when an influx of people tightened the dimensions of the room worringly. There wasn't room to swing a cat in there. You could hardly swing Paris Hilton's brain, in fact. So Rhyl was more or less shunted to the side by the weight of fellow students, leaving me next to a guy who looked like another famous footballer. I started by discussing the flow of alcohol in the kitchen (hopefully it would only be flowing from bottles, unlike last year's infamous scenes). This was all good and well, but the real breakthrough came when the guy, now called Aberdare, noticed my Stone Cold pendant, and admitted to watching wrestling. Wow. Someone else at Glasgow University watches wrestling. Unfortunately, he seems to be a bigger fan of TNA than WWE. You can guess what TNA is a pun on. And if you're not getting it, it's T and A.
Things are going well, but one must wonder when or where this night will end. These people don't look like slowing down anytime soon, and new alcohol keeps appearing from somewhere. Bangor has had a lot. Maybe too much. He's staggering around incoherently like the comrades at a Scottish Socialist rally, and Llanelli is starting to do play some weird games with him. They're both straight, though.
There's a knock on the door...
IT's COLWYN BAY!!!!!!
The day was pretty memorable up to this point, but was sewn in as an instant classic the moment Colwyn Bay popped his head round the door. And yes, he did march over to the fridge and bark, "Give me a beer!" I have it on film, but I can't really put it on here (Privacy Act 1988). The man is the living embodiment of the word 'Legend', not just for his surreal late night drinking, but his general attitude the whole week. No situation was insurmountable for this man, no hill too high, no desert too dry (Mr. Blobby, 1993). The looks on people's faces are too difficult to describe, so I'll just show a picture which has been doing the rounds on Bebo. I suppose it kind of gives away the identity of Colwyn Bay, but it's a price worth paying.
Legend
Alas, things got slightly out of hand from here. As I've said, the flow of alcohol into the room was quite ridiculous all night, and you know students - we were never going to pass up such bingeing. Quite what our insides will look like in 45 years is anyone's guess. Probably like Jackie Stallone's face. Chew on that when you hit the town tonight (don't chew on her face, though).
Firstly, people started egging me on to have more lager. I'm maybe not the master of knowing when to stop (see Thursday night), but I like to think that I call it right more times than not. Two pints is my limit, and I'm sticking to it. Um, unless it's a special occasion, of course. This alcolohic egging continued well into the night, as I don't think people quite got the message at first. I may get drunk very occasionally, but I will not be binge-drunk by others. Cabiche?
Then Bangor had more. Much more. And Llanelli had the crazed notion to wrap him in toilet paper. Again, I have the video, so if anyone wants to see it they can arrange it with me, but I'm not posting it on th'internet. Comically, when I showed the footage to Bangor on a recent night out, he protested, "That's not me". At least, that's what I think he said. The appaling sound of Promiscuous by Nelly Furtado was polluting my ears at the time.
To top it off, someone got hold of some cleaner's spray. Yes. Cleaner's spray. See what happens when you have too much? Everyone starts thinking they're Kim and frigging Aggie. I immediately turned my back to the toxic melee, choosing to talk to Llanberis instead (and apologise for being so anti-social in the Year I tutorials, an apology that was duly accepted). But it was too late. The putrid gas dispersed halfway across the room, causing a delirious reaction from one drinker. I think he was long gone. My first thought, however, was Llanberis. Should I not get in the way or something? Stop this carnage? Be a hero? Before I got the chance to predictably chicken out, Llanberis headed across the room, probably to talk to Colwyn Bay. Actually, what the frig was Colwyn doing during all of this? As a senior member of staff (not to mention, an absolute legend), I expected him to eject the spray and sprayer from the room. You know the deal - see you tomorrow, we'll say no more about it. But Colwyn just carries on drinking like it's 1999, oblivious to the toxic hell erupting across the room. Luckily for the students' health and safety, things started to wind down here anyway. But what if they hadn't? I could be writing this blog to you from the next life. Using a wireless connection, one would presume.
The last one out was Colwyn Bay. What a shock. I'll never forget the look on his face as he staggered across the room with his back to me, bumped into me and swung round to look me in the eyes. If a picture tells a thousand words, his demeanour told a thousand units of beer. He looked at me as if to say, "What are you doing here?". I very nearly asked him the same thing. But the whole thing was more hilarious than anything else, as lecturer and student shared in a surreal moment of befuddled drunken confusion. As I finally left the room (with some guy claiming there was US Masters golf on the TV - on a MONDAY!?!), I was again offered more alcohol by Rhyl. He means well, but tonight is not the night. I've got to go to Carmarthen tomorrow and clean house.
As I crawled into bed, I felt like I could finally relax. Swansea was supposed to be the worst week of my life, but was now on course to become the greatest. If I could just get through Wednesday and Thursday without being led to the proverbial lions of public speaking, this really would be the best time of my entire existence. And that spray thing did no harm to anyone, so no-one will be punished tomorrow. Will they......?
*to be furthered*
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