Sunday April 1st 2007

Hard to know what it is when you've never had one
I can't say where it is, but I know I'm going home...

Picture the scene. It's Autumn 2004. Your life is currently down the cacker after the complete failure to live a fulfilling school life. You have a small circle of friends, but an even smaller circle of memories from invigorating experiences. And your school is full of twats. The Advanced Higher Computing teacher walks in and informs you of the specifics of your 6th Year project, which will involve an insane amount of man-hours (or people-hours, as new EU regulations probably state), an overwhelming array of paperwork, a Flash document. And a presentation.

[*insert fear]

Anyone who knows me knows that I have a long and ridiculous history of fearing social situations, but nothing on this planet (with the possible exception of Celebrity Racism with Jade Goody) scares me more than the prospect of presenting (alliteration). The very word sends shivers down my spine, and not in a sexual way. September 2001 is remembered as the month the Twin Towers fell (prompting America's FULLY JUSTIFIED War on Terror, by the way), but as great Americans were showing courage in the face of unforseen adversity, I didn't even have the balls to speak in front of my English class without making a complete fool of myself. To cut a long story short, I was trembling like the audience at a Lily Allen gig, and was barely audible above the sound - the terrifying, chilling sound - of my integrity eroding away in an instant. So for 5 1/2 years, I have ducked out of every talk I've been asked to give, causing some problems for my education and shifting the workload onto bemused co-group members. University courses have been chosen and rejected with presentations in mind. Hell, I almost didn't make it to Glasgow, so petrified was I by the threat of having to give talks. So when I received word of the annual Geography field trip to Swansea, I could be forgiven for feeling slightly nauseous at the prospect of compulsory presentations every night. Let me repeat that for any vacuous LA airheads from hotelier families with undeserving levels of fame. Compulsory. Presentations. Every. Night.


Airhead

For the past 6 months, I've been having the time of my life, Greenday style, at Glasgow University. After a fun but ridiculously under-acheiving spell in Year I (I like to use Roman Numerals wherever I can), I recognised that things had to change - I had to change. And I duly did. But through all the lectures, labs and tutorials, newspapers meetings, pub jaunts and the infamous flat party of February 3rd, not to mention meeting Nerina Pallot and Lita, the dark silhouette of Swansea hung over me like an overbearing Welsh scrum. No matter how great Year II was, I still felt that boarding that coach on April 1st would make me a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter. And sending lambs on a bus is just asking for trouble, isn't it?

So I hummed and hawwed. I weighed up the implications of staying or going: going or staying. Success or failure; joy or pain; Lita or Jordan. At the special Swansea lecture in January, I stayed at the end to ask the tough questions to the great Dr Derek Fabel (who can do no wrong, in my opinion). I could have asked them during the lecture, but then there'd be no frigging problem in the first place, would there? It would be the equivalent of Pete Doherty no-showing a crucial court appearance to appear at a 'Say NO to Drugs' conference.

Lita: Preferable to Jordan

Unfortunately, my worst fears were officially realised. Fabel stated that there would be no room for negociation, and no opportunity to opt out. While the good Doctor is a man of utmost integrity, and was merely following orders from the powers that be, it did leave me very slightly screwed, like a night in a restaurant cupboard with Boris Becker.

So I went back to the Uni psychologist. I underwent Thought Field Treatment, a time-honoured method for removing cacky fears. I went round everyone I know asking (subtly) for words of encouragement. I took frigging beta blockers. Heck, I considered taking alcoholic beverages before each talk, in a clear breach of Departmental policy. And yet, while the betas were helping somewhat, I was still filled with a sense of inevitable dread as I headed up to Glasgow on Saturday, March 31st 2007. How could I spend the entire next day in a bus with these people, when in the back of my mind, I was 72 hours away from a public flogging, Welsh-style? How could I spend 10 hours (count 'em) locked in with genuinely nice people who could soon be under the desk with embarassment for my own shortcomings? On April Fool's Day, of all days?

Like it or not, I was about to find out. The cheques had been cashed, the rooms had been booked, the coaches were ready. And I was about to embark on the trip of a lifetime with 122 very interesting people. Very. Very, Very...

In Jack Bauer-esque fashion, the following takes place between April 1st 2007 and April 6th 2007. I may lurch between present, past and future tense, and first, second and third person (can you get second person?), but if it's good enough for Mick Foley, it's good enough for me. In addition, for legal reasons (and because I rightfully got reprimanded for recording in a pub on the Wednesday night), if anyone sees a picture of themselves that they'd like deleted, then you can e-mail me at craiging619@hotmail.com, and the J-Peg will be removed quicker than John Leslie's integrity. And finally, the names of all students and staff have been tactfully replaced with the placenames of famous Welsh towns, so I avoid a potential lawsuit. I will not make the same mistakes as Neil Hamilton. I'll try and not be a complete twat, for a kick-off...

Sunday 1st April 2007

7:10am. I'm standing at the door of my relatives, who very kindly allowed me to stay over last night in Glasgow. In front of me is a flight of stairs, but it might as well be an executioner's axe. Hard as I try, I'm struggling to quell my overwhelming dread for the next week of my life, as I am currently scheduled to give three straight presentations in front of 122 people. I'm also slightly queasy about the prospect of meeting so many new people. I know I've had a great year, the best of my life by far, but how can I gaurantee success in such an intense environment with all these accomplished people, who've probably already formed friendships of their own? I started regularly talking to about 3 guys in Geography, but it has recently come to my attention that none of them are going to Swansea, feeling me as vulnerable as the activists at a Zimbabwean political rally. Maybe they'll hate me. I'm one of the geekiest people of all time (Eugene from Big Brother is one of my TV icons), and while Year II has broken down many of the barriers in my life, a number of roadblocks remain, US-Canada border-style. Now I need to accelerate the car and smash the roadblocks into a thousand pieces. If you're trying to picture this, it's something like the OJ Simpson car chase, only with my social status in the back seat.

Icon: Euegne

7:25am. I drag myself over the University Avenue hill, stopping for a water break at the top (there just happens to be a low wall there, perfect for sitting on while utterly exhausted). I meander downhill, partially petrified (alliteration) of the situation awaiting me. All of a sudden three express coaches appear behind the rather hideous mass of the Maths Building, and I'm walking into a ruck of students, dropping my bag on the cold concrete beneath me. I don't know anyone here. What the frig is going on? Have they swapped rosters in the last fortnight? Or have I failed to put faces to names by always slipping in at the front of lectures, and scarpering away at 10:55 for some Algebra? Whatever, I'm way in over my head, with a group of people who I may well get on with, if I could just break the ice. Then, out of nowhere (well, just up the road actually), a guy I met at an insane flat party in February appears. For argument's sake, let's call him Aberystwyth. Aberystwyth is a really good guy who I still know relatively little about, and worringly, he knows relatively little about me. I'm sure that'll change by Friday evening, for better or worse. Anyway, Aberystywth starts chatting to me about the impending 9 1/2 hour journey to South Wales, and the tension starts to ease somewhat. Then we board the bus. Oh dear. Wrexham, one of the most charismatic and entertaining lecturers of all time, hands out the course book to reveal full details of the trip. And it hits home once again - three presentations. Then I spot Prestatyn further down the bus. Prestatyn scares me. Good job I packed travelsick pills, all things considered.

9:30am. The line of coaches rounds Gretna and heads into England. I've said a few things to Aberystwyth and his mates, but am still struggling to get into the groove of the whole thing. Perhaps I've put too much pressure on myself regarding the presentations. Maybe crossing the border will instigate a new era for me. Or maybe Lily Allen can sing tunefully without the aid of digital technology and a thousand blaring trumpets. You decide, as Davina shouts whilst heavily pregnant.

9:45am. Southwaite Services. I'm starting to enjoy the day slightly more, but the group is still trying to integrate fully, and a fleet of buses is no place to socialise. As a veteran of the X77 from Prestwick to the Uni, I have full experience of the frosty atmosphere that tends to exist on buses. Unless there are real characters, or you have 10 hours of Nerina Pallot humming on your I-Pod (and boy, I wish I did), you struggle to pass the time. Luckily, as I am about to discover, this trip has some real characters.

Hum: Nerina

But wait a minute, what's this? Up walks a girl I remember from a past Lab, who I will henceforth call Newport. And she starts talking to me. Yeah. Like I'm normal. I reply with some babbling monologue about my range of Tesco Onion Rings, and in an impromptu act, begin feeding them to pigeons. The pigeons reject them. That better not be an omen.

But the significance of the conversation strikes me immediately. Newport seems to know Cardiff, a guy I went to school with, so if I can somehow 'get in' with this group by Swansea, I'll be laughing all the way to the social bank. Newport then shocks me by inviting me on the bus down to Keele Services (a truly great place, in all seriousness). After hesitating slightly, I decide to transfer buses for the next leg of the trip. Alas, a member of staff, Betws-y-Coed, spots the descrepancy and arranges my safe return to the original coach. Oh well. It would be unfair of me to desert Aberystwyth and his mates anyway, in an act tantamount to treason, so I decide to stay close to both groups and see what happens. Perhaps when I get to Swansea I'll have the opportunity to "get me some chat", as 50 Cent probably says.

12:45pm. Keele. I have no idea where I am, just that the coach convoy (alliteration) is proceeding down the M6. I usually pack a range of maps when I travel, but my relentless fretting about the presentations has left me with no time to attend to such tasks. The enormity of the queue in Burger Kings leaves me running for my bus, where the atmosphere has significantly picked up. Maybe it's because we're nearly in Wales, the home of such luminaries as Dylan Thomas, Sir Tom Jones and, um, Craig Bellamy.

5:00pm. I'm managing to chat semi-freely to Aberystwyth and his range of friends, including Ffestiniog. The place-names are now in English and Welsh, an observation which will actually come in handy for the impending Human Geography project. People seem to be relaxed but exhausted, a trend which is only going to worsen in the next six days.



5:30pm. At long, long last, Swansea. It was some feeling to fly over the dramatic, mountainous curve of Junction 42 and head over the valley, but even more daunting to read the words, "WELCOME TO SWANSEA". It's not an overstatement to say that I've been dreading this moment for years now. Wrexham cracks some one-liners about the city, and on passing the prison, professes that "I better not be picking you up from here on Friday". But nothing can distract from the fact that I am now in Swansea, the place where my credibility and respect is supposed to crumble in front of my entire assemblage of Geographic peers. Isn't it?

5:45pm. I am officially introduced to my new room for the week, and I am surprised and impressed. Ok, it lacks a television, and is smaller than the queue for a 'Best of Iain Duncan Smith' DVD, but everything works efficiently - sink, flashy fridge etc. Basically like the MacDonald Brothers' album version of 'Young at Heart', only without harmonising.

6:00pm. Dinner. I heard extremely mixed reviews of the Swansea University Student Union (or SUSU) all week, and I'd like to set the record straight here. While I wouldn't prefer to spend 4 years there, I think the Union did its job for the week. The food ranged from average to excellent, the bar was perfectly acceptable, and the ambience of the place was comfortable. Maybe because of the people more than the architecture. But you can't complain when you collect a Chicken Tikka Malasa, chocolate gateaux, red onions and Coke Zero as a 'complimentary' part of the week. Nice, as either Ali G or Borat said (can't remember which one).

Complimentary: Coke Zero

7:10pm. A summit is called for the entire group in the Geography wing of campus. I can't properly recite what I thought when I entered the overwhelmingly large lecture theatre, but it involved repeated use of the phrase, "What the frig?" I use the word 'frig' a lot, as I don't believe in using its more vulgar step-brother. How in Nerina Pallot's name am I supposed to give a presentation in this place? The rows are steeper than the price of the Geography-2 Handbook, for crying out loud. The room is easily one of the most intidating I've ever set foot in, but Geography somehow expects me to hold my nerve and give three talks later this week. They can whistle for it. Unless they want the frightening prospect of three panic attacks on their hands.

7:15pm. Newport again starts talking to me, breaking the tension of the incredibly steep lecture theatre. She's a really nice person, so talking to her should become easier as the week progresses. Unfortunately, the dimensions of the room have left me at a nervous disposition, and in my mind is the chilling countdown to Tuesday night's talk. 48 hours. In 48 hours my credibility is flushed down the toilet like Nelly Furtado's creativity. Is there any point in trying to make friends if I'm going to be frozen out by my own general patheticness on Tuesday night? This isn't a transcript of my conversation with Newport, by the way. I think I talked to her about Tennents.

8:45pm. The summit finally disperses, and not a moment too soon. The Geography department were superb in handling the trip, a trip which could have easily have descended into a fatigued farce (alliteration). But if they change one thing in the future, they should move the Sunday summit back to Monday morning, or hold a shortened meeting on the Sunday night. After an early start and nigh on 10 hours on the motorway, the group was legitimately struggling to stay awake through this, and it was through no fault of legendary figures like Colwyn Bay and Wrexham.

8:50pm. I am unofficially invited to SUSU by Cardiff and Newport. Somewhere in here I gave my mobile number to Newport, so after a good day of social networking, Bebo-style, I guess I will now be "hitting 'da town" for some classic late-night drinking. Um, drinking sensibly, of course. But when you've previously been reduced to howling across a room skelly-eyed after a couple of pints, is there really any such thing as sensible drinking?

Invite: SUSU

9:30pm. In a slightly nervy moment, I leave for the Union on my own. I had hoped to clean house (wrestling phrase) in a social setting every night, and I need to strike up conversation quickly when I get to the Union. What if I don't know anyone there? What if they've gone into Swansea? What if it's full of Welsh heavies, continuing the tradition of real men like, em, Gavin Henson? At the entrance to the 2nd floor bar I stop, and begin to loiter suspiciously. Really, this has to stop. I've got nothing to be ashamed of (other than the live X Factor performance of "It's Chico Time" on my IPod), and am perfectly capable of walking into a pub and having a good night. I approach the door, and survey the scene from a more advantageous position. It turns out that Aberysywyth is playing a highly competivitive round-robin pool tournament with challengers including Lanfair PG (a shortened version of the world's longest place name). Nae danger here, so I head on in.

9:40pm. After a draining but ultimately rewarding day, the consistent flow of alcohol is raising spirits among the ranks. I somehow find myself in a conversation with one of the barmen, Pembroke Dock, who interestingly looks like a hybrid of every character from Nathan Barley. Pembroke Dock informs me that the Welsh smoking ban will finally kick in at midnight. Not a moment too soon, I say. To cut a long story short, I don't like public smoking. In fact, I outright hate it. It gives me headaches and makes my eyes stings and, well, there are a dozen other reasons. But like I said, long story. But I can honestly say that the ban came just in time for my socialising in Swansea, as I'm not sure I could have put up with another night like Sunday. It saved my skin. Maybe it'll literally save the skin of Welsh smokers. I'm talking pigmentation, folks.


Shame: Chico

10:30pm. The night is progressing well. After asking Pembroke Dock for a half pint of Tennents, I somehow wound up with a full pint of Strongbow. But since their adverts are so good (particularly the one tearing the despicable celeb mag culture to shreds), I'll let him off with it. The pool tournament is nearing its conclusion, with Abersyswyth and Lanfair PG providing a high standard of play throughout. Lanfair PG seems to be establishing a rapport around the word 'Craig', as half the people on the trip appear to be called Craig. Even the women. I'm sorry, I'm not sure what that gag was trying to acheive. My eyes sting.

Somewhere in all of this, Cardiff and Newport joined proceedings, surrounded by a veritable ruck of students. After Pembroke Dock's co-staff members called for last orders, Abersytwyth's faction duly obliged by ordering - and downing - a string of alcolohic beverages. Presumably washing down the taste of fatigue, so to speak. Next thing I knew, they were leaving the premises and having an early night. With the live I've led, 11pm is hardly an early night, but I understand I'm in the midst of the Freshers Week I never had, and thus must take every opportunity to hang around drunken students in the hope of finding some humorous conversation. Appropriately, Cardiff then invites me to the Floor 3 kitchen for "some booze and a chat". At least I think that's what he said. I was slightly drunk after my full pint of Strongbow. Did someone snigger? My eyes sting.

From there, the night is slightly hazy. I'm not one of those people who gets so drunk they forget key events the next morning (how can you live with yourselves? you might have impregnated a monkey and you don't even know it), but if I was asked to describe the whole hour in the kitchen chronologically, I would be as baffled as the audience at a Frank Skinner sitcom. I remember accepting a can of something, Lord knows what. I remember Newport smoking a cigarette, whilst trying to evade the ever-ominous fire alarm. I remember having my Stone Cold pendant questioned by puzzled onlookers including Cardiff, the first of a dozen such instances over the next week. And I remember someone admitting to something that left me dumbstruck. I'll not go into details at this stage, but I was left very, very confused by it. After a day like that, and the alcohol I had consumed, I wondered if I was hearing things. But like I said, now is not the time for such tittle-tattle. And no, it wasn't someone admitting to producing Paris Hilton's album. If I'd heard that, I think I would have left the city immediately. My eyes sting.

I clambered back into bed, reached up and shoved the window open. The heat inside the room would almost put Stacy Keibler to shame (almost), so every night I left the windows slightly open. Just as I was drifting off to sleep, the piercing sound of my mobile phone startled me into action. It was a colleague from Glasgow, with some banter. Clearly he thought we stayed awake into the wee small hours in Swansea. In fact, as it turned out, he was almost exclusively right...

And that was April 1st. An absolute roller-coaster of a day, as I'd expected, but with some wholly unpredictable outcomes. When you come to University, I think you kind of agree to subject yourself to a range of unique, intense and high-pressure situations. If I'd moved to the Halls in 2005, I'd be used to all this by now, but April Fools' Day was a real eye-opener to the lifestyle of a proper full-on 'student'. And I liked it. Whether I'd still be smiling after a 12-hour human geography binge was anyone's guess. But the people were great all through Sunday. If they could just keep it up on Monday, this would be on course to becoming a history-making week. Much like Sharon Osbourne's first week on the X Factor without saying, "You go girl".

*to be continued*