Like never before?
7:00am. My alarm woke me from a blissful sleep. I dreamt that Nerina Pallot was driving past me in Blysthwood Street, approaching the junction with Sauchiehall Street. She stopped at some traffic lights, allowing me to go over and strike up a lovely conversation with her. We chatted about her last tour date in Glasgow (which actually happened), and I got the date wrong, much to Nerina's hilarity. We then said our goodbyes, before I ran back up to her and said, "You're incredible, by the way..." Nerina tilted her head, smiled shyly and...
...drove away up Sauchiehall Street. Thanks a bunch, brain. I headed to breakfast to be greeted by co-eaters like Abersytwyth and Merthyr Tydfil. Merthyr Tydfil had previously only spoken to me in SUSU, after a few too many half pints, so it was good to chat to her in a slightly less bingey environment. As a member of the Blue Group, she hadn't really got to know me yet, but the Union was a perfect environment to get to know to people. Until the irate chef showed up. Henceforth called, Mount Snowdon.
Irate: Snowdon
8:25am. Today is the day the groups swap places, with the Blue Group interviewing people in towns like the Mumbles ("remember you're a Mumbles" - whoever thought that up deserves courteous amounts of praise), while the Red Group 'get physical'. I'm sorry, that's an upsetting image. Basically, the 61 of us are heading to the Gower Peninsula to investigate the state of the Welsh coastline, measuring rock clasts and the like. Luckily, the area has nothing to do with its namesake, David Gower. So we won't be playing cricket with the rock samples, before presenting The Ashes on Sky Sports and never letting the analysts speak.
9:15am. We arrive in a quaint little village on the clifftop, and begin what will eventually become an epic hike across hill and vale. I feel exhausted at this point, as the exessive drinking and late nights are almost completely new to me, but I get the feeling that 'exhausted' will be putting it mildly by mid-afternoon. Utilising my brand new pro-social instincts, I get chatting to a guy I've never met before, Bryncrug. I think I instigated the conversation, although as my memory is hazier than a Kuala Lumpur sky, it may have been him. Not that it really matters anymore - the easy-going nature of the week has left the values of friendliness and polite conversation entrenched in me, not literally. It turns out that Bryncrug remembers seeing me in Year I Maths, but never spoke to me. That's understandable. I acted twattily throughout Year I, with an imaginary wall existing between me and the other students. Only in Year II has the wall being eroded away, much like the raised beach we plan to stake out this morning.
9:45am. The two men leading today's investigation are Myddfai and Colwyn Bay. Ah yes, Colwyn. Still going strong, despite his (alleged) indescretions at the infamous Floor 4 Party, Colwyn is very much in charge, stamping his authority all over the Gower Peninsula. Myddfai takes members of the group, including Newport, further along the cliff while Colwyn leads us directly down the face of the raised beach to a limestone pavement. I dunno, there's something about the phrase 'Limestone Pavement' that reminds me of a song. Oh, who was it now? Glen Campbell?
'Like a Limestone Pavement'
10:15am. After a brief introduction from Colwyn Bay, it's now time to get to work. My group comprised of Port Talbot, Cenarth and the inimitable Llandudno. Llandudno is a legend. He manages to keep charisma levels at record highs, even in the dullest of moments. Last night at the presentations, he even managed to transfer the slides in a charismatic manner. This should be great entertainment, so after locating the appropriate section of cliff, we have to nominate two people to climb an unfortunately placed scree slope and remove 50 rock clasts. Llandudno races up the slope like it's the Travelator on Gladiators, so I have only one option, deciding to follow him up. It's not a sexist thing, as Port Talbot and/or Cenarth could almost certainly have done a better job than me (see later). It's just that Llandudno has unmatched comedic talent, and I feel obliged to take the chance to interact with him. Very few people can make an audience laugh without even exerting effort. John Cleese, David Jason and the late, great Ronnie Barker would be three of those people. One day, Llandudno may be another. To think Channel 4 gave airtime to the frigging Goody family instead is almost depressing.
10:20am. Time to take this shindig up a gear. Llandudno is measuring the angles of a rock fragment in the cliff, before removing the aforementioned fragment with the helpful aid of a hammer. Originally, we have some problems remembering how to measure such angles. At the final Geography Labs in February (an EIGHT MONTH summer holiday? can you believe the cheek of it?) we had to measure rocks in a similar style, but the method confused us back then. It's something about moving the compass to zero degrees, then placing it next to the longest segment of rock, before taking the compass and turning it perpendicularly before re-angling it and positioning it adjacent to the height of the clast. Um, simple. We're somehow supposed to get two numbers out of that. I don't know about two numbers, but I've got two words for them. And the first one is "frig".
10:50am. Things are progressing well, with Llandudno and myself measuring the angles of rock fragments before gouging them out of the cliff face in the style of Evander Holyfield's ear, and throwing them down the scree slope to Port Talbot and Cenarth. But I'm mindful of the fact that Llandudno is doing far more work than me, with my role often reduced to lobbing the rocks downhill. After my arguably auspicious role in the human project, I am thoroughly determined to carry the share of the proverbial clast load, and after discussions with Llandudno we agree to alternate the rock measurements etc. I can't help feeling, though, that the ground underneath me is more unsteady than Lindsay Lohan's stomach. I keep slipping on the scree, and while Llandudno seems much calmer about the situation, I argue that his position on a MUCH FLATTER piece of ground may have something to do with his relative lack of nerves. On the beach below, colleagues like Llanberis and Newport are making their way towards us, as their investigation gathers pace under the watchful eye of Myddfai. I turn round, hammer in hand, poised to drag another rock out of the cliff face. Wait a minute...I'm...I'm falling...No, not this time...No you don't...Uh-oh...
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ah...
10:51am. I'm alive. I'm actually alive. Just like Richard Hammond survived, so too have I. Surrounding me is a sea of nettles, presently causing extreme pain to my legs, while below me is a limestone pavement (now's not the time for that Glen Campbell song). It appears that my awkward footing has resulted in me falling about five feet down the slope, with a ten foot drop still beneath me. My first concern is to get the frig off of this slope, while somehow retaining a level of dignity. And removing these nettles from my jeans, which will unfortunately require a complete lack of dignity to achieve. Above me, Llandudno is stranded at the summit of the slope. And he's smiling. Well, he's always smiling, due to his high charisma levels, but all the charisma in the world won't remove me from the scree-induced pain currently enveloping me. Port Talbot and Cenarth are at the foot of the slope, asking if I'm alright. I pretend I am.
Survival: Hammond
But Llandudno is looking along the beach, searching for some kind of resuce operation. Who on earth can save me at this juncture? What force can possibly guide me to safety in this bleakest of moments? Then, as if by magic, Llandudno has the answer...
"It's Colwyn Bay!"
In an instant I swing round to see Colwyn hitchhiking his way (or just hiking) across the limestone pavement to come to the rescue. This man is a saviour. Just 34 hours ago he was drunker than the TV executive who commissioned 'Any Dream Will Do', yet here he is coming to the aid of a stricken student (alliteration). Crossing a limestone pavement is no ordinary morning stroll, so Colwyn takes his time getting here. But once he does he is a model professional, helping me down the slope with as much efficiency as a Take That performance of 'Patience'. A song that, incidentally, they stole from Nerina Pallot. Don't believe me? Then buy her first album. Or even if you do, just buy it anyway. She deserves a lot of money, so she does.
Thiefs: Take That
11:30am. It won't surprise you to hear that I never climbed that scree slope again. I sincerely doubt I ever will, unless I become a celebrity and get dispatched to places associated with my youth by 'Who Do You Think You Are?'. Or ITV's very own show, 'You Don't Know You're Born'. Which, as Harry Hill once noted, is the same.
The Slope of Doom
Llandudno has to conclude the hilltop investigation by himself, while Port Talbot, Cenarth and myself measure the length, width and height of the rock samples. It later emerges that Llandudno cried "No!" as I literally fell from grace. Very thoughtful, although I failed to hear this at the time, as all other noises were drowned out by the terrifying sound of shoes crashing against eroded rock fragments. The friction caused by the fall could have powered Hunderston for a fortnight. Anyway, what were my shoes playing at anyway? I bought them especially for Swansea, but they seem to have seriously let me down in my hour of need. I may need to ask Paolo Nutini for some replacements.
New Shoes: Nutini
12:45pm. With a bit of hard work and dedication from our crisis-stricken group of four, some integrity was restored to the operation. Our wisest decision was to pick steadier underfoot conditions for our second (and final) sample of 50 clasts, so the shoe-related shenanigans thankfully ceased. Unfortunately, half the beach seemed to have seen it. Or maybe they just heard it, turning their heads just in time to witness my 'hilarious' demise. The Myddfai-led group were settling down for some light lunch, when all of a sudden the man himself joined proceedings. Myddfai, ladies and gentlemen, was not a happy chappie. "Why have you come over here?" he bellowed with all the precision of a Jack Bauer kill. Llanberis and others, including Cardigan, were among those slightly perturbed by this turn of events. After a hard morning's graft in a hideously glaciated environment, they pointed out that the logical thing to do was to team up with our rock-related group for a brunch of sorts. "But you're supposed to be over there," protested Myddai - he was in full flow by this point - "and now you'll have to return there when you've finished." I guess in retrospect it was a logical enough argument, but the likes of Llanberis and Newport saw no point in instigating a verbal duel over such a petty specific as a lunch venue. So they agreed to return to work after finishing their crucial eating rota. I had to laugh, though, when Myddfai looked out across the wide expanse of limestone, with the Bristol Channel and Atlantic Ocean surrounding him, and cried in distress, "you'll have to go all the way over there now." And pointed to a spot about four minutes away. Chortle *chortles*
12:50pm. Exit Myddfai, stage left. Much to my chagrin, talk now turns to my unsavoury tumble from the hillside. To the untrained eye, I may appear to carry myself as shyly as the Sun during totality in a solar eclipse. I guess that comes with the terrority when you go through six years of school and come out feeling LESS developed than when you went in. But beneath it all, I have the horrible feeling that I'm actually an attention seeker. I just didn't have a chance to display such arrogant tendancies at P*******k A*****y, but since coming to Glasgow and endearing myself to student life, I think I've become cockier than the lovechild of Robbie Williams and Jeremy Clarkson. I'm sorry, that was malicious. But the people in Glasgow are so friendly, always asking how you're getting on, what you've been doing recently, how studies are going, whether you watched Deal or No Deal last night - the crucial questions. You could be forgiven for thinking you were a 'somebody', even if you're still a 'nobody'. Of course, history will judge which category I fall into and...I'm sorry, that sounded like Tony Blair's resignation speech. The point is this. Underneath the embarrased, almost ashamed facade, I actually don't mind being the centre of attention. If you're having confidence issues in your life, there is no greater remedy than University life. And if you're at Glasgow University now and still haven't cracked it, I hereby DEMAND that you book your sorry ass on a field trip with immediate effect. That will either come across as a valuable motivational speech or a bunch of crap, but just remember the well-known phrase that came to mind somewhere on that limestone pavement in April; the one phrase that could accurately describe my year in Glasgow, and my week in Swansea: where there's a will, there's a way.
I feel much better after that. Much like when the decent and worthwhile citizens of Planet Earth gathered round their TVs and computers to hear the joyous news that Paris Hilton had finally been jailed.
Shy: Sun
Back on topic, and the conversation was centring on the terrifying events of the 'Slope of Doom', as I would call it. A spread of people from across the beach confirmed that the impact of the fall could be heard for, um, many yards. I asked Newport if she had heard the drama unfold, but she was deep in conversation with someone else - possibly Cardigan, or maybe even the unique Llanelli - and didn't hear. So I asked again. Looking back, it perhaps wasn't the wisest move to boast of experiencing untold pain when my actual injuries amounted to a couple of cuts and bruises (I'm hardly Matthew Fox, although I was coincentally stranded on a beach as well). Newport replied that she had "heard something" at the time of my tumble (alliteration). "It's quite funny when you think about it", noted someone. I was suitably quick to add, "it was no laughing matter at the time". People laughed at that one, ironically. Newport then added that she "loves your (my) banter", and before I knew it, I was stood atop the rock talking to an audience of around 15 people. I'd almost chickened out of Swansea after hearing about the presentations, so I felt chuffed at the immediate progress I was making, as I chatted away to the group like it was 'An Audience With Ricky Martin' or something. Luckily, there would be no duets with Kelis today.
1:20pm. Llandudno and Port Talbot have suggested a walk across the limestone pavement in celebration of our completion of the clast task (tongue twister). Myself and Cardigan decide to join them on this impromptu expedition, and it gives me a chance to talk to Cardigan for the first time. Llandudno has organised a particularly testing route to the coast of the Bristol Channel, which will involve jumping from section to section (clints) over perilously dangerous gaps in the pavement (grykes). Llandudno is suggesting that a name is needed to accurately define these jumps of terror, these leaps of danger, these......dangerleaps!!! Genius!!!
Dangerleaps
*A dangerleap (Copyright Llandudno & Co, April 2007) must be wider than two feet from take-off to landing, over a sheer drop of more than four feet. Before undertaking a dangerleap, you should contact your GP and solicitor, or seek adequate travel insurance from the Post Office. Dangerleaps are available for download on all illegal file-sharing hosts, and can be ordered via a stamped addressed envelope to some address in the Home Counties. No substitutions, exchanges or refunds. Terms and conditions apply. Go to http://www.dangerleaps.org/ for more information.
2:30pm. We were finally led away from the limestone and Slope of Doom by Colwyn Bay, but an even tougher challenge lay ahead in the form of a really, really, really steep climb. Seriously, this one had to be seen to be believed. More preposterously dimensioned than Jordan's chestal area, this was. I maintain to this day that the angle of incline was over 45 degrees, although the statistics may disagree. We probably should have got our fancy protractor-compass measurement things out and found out for ourselves. But we couldn't. We were knackered.
2:45pm. Colwyn led us to the summit of the slope with his usual efficiency, before turning 135 degrees and pointing to the sea. No. No, you're kidding me..
"We're going down there in a minute."
Nerina Natasha Georgina Pallot. Why the frig did we come all the way up here then? Colwyn explained that the limestone pavement was unpassable past a certain point, so the rise and fall of our altitude was necessary to access the cave in question. Then he grabbed the pair of pickaxes I was holding (what is a pair of pickaxes anyway) and declared, "Let me take them". I suppose that's fair enough. I had one axe dangling precariously from the rope holding the other one, so the safety of myself and my fellow colleagues could have been compromised. Similar to when Gareth Gates' virginity was compromised by one of the celebrities mentioned above. And no, it wasn't Robbie Williams. Although nothing would surprise me. Will he sue me as well, I wonder?
Gates: Virginity Compromised
3:00pm. The cave itself was like a Karst Limestone lecture in 3D. Colwyn gave an entertaining speech noting all the traditional features like stalactites and stalacmites, before allowing us time to explore the cave for ourselves. Another student, Bulith Wells, was intrigued by Colwyn's reference to an ancient prehistoric bone embedded in the rock face, so after asking for directions, Bulith duly led me to the fossilised structure. However, time was of the essence. You see, in the physically draining slog up the hillside, a couple of members of the group had grown ultra-tired. After negociations with Colwyn, they agreed to stay on the windswept hillside rather than risk fatigue and possible injury on the perilous Atlantic coast. Thus, it was our duty to return uphill as soon as possible, for security reasons. There was even a Dangerleap thrown in for good measure, and frankly, it's a minor miracle that no-one has suffered concussion on these shores. Yet.
3:30pm. The relative sanctuary of a village cafe awaits us, but not before Colwyn Bay finishes puffing away on his cigarette. Shocking. This area is all Guernsey-esque, as I remark to colleagues including Llanberis and Rhyl. As students and tourists mingle freely, partaking of ice cream and chilled drinks in the sunshine, you could be forgiven for thinking this was the French Riveria. Perhaps the return to urban South Wales will shake us into reality, not literally.
5:00pm. Exhaustion is hitting home. We've been gathered in a study room by Colwyn Bay to work on our presentation for tonight, and everyone is beginning to realise that 12 hours of work and 7 hours of drinking can only last so long. The groups try and plan some sort of coherent argument, but by ten to six the direction of the talk is less clear than a Cream of Mushroom soup cooked by Alistair Campbell. Colwyn practically orders us to take an hour off, head to SUSU for some dinner and come back refreshed. Instead of 'being cruel to be kind', Colwyn's attitude could be described as 'being kind to be cruel', as the workload will only intensify after 7 o'clock.
Murky: Campbell
6:30pm. Dinner, and I'm having my usual SUSU Marathon when Bulith Wells comes over for a chat. I mention my article in the Glasgow Guardian about Ming Campbell in March (during which I revealed that the Liberal Democrats 'opposed the invasion of Iraq'. Um, exclusively), and he responds that a close relative of his is a prestiguous journalist in a London broadsheet. I'm in with the high-ups now. But wait a minute, why's Prestatyn walking towards us? He doesn't know Bulith, does he? Oh no...Bulith is introducing us to each other!
Shengus MacFengus.
"Hi."
"Hi."
("You scare me, by the way.")
7:00pm. Back to the study room, and after intially doubting Colwyn's judgment, I think he called it spectacularly right with the hunger-induced break. Tensions weren't exactly at boiling point beforehand (among such nice people, an argument was as likely as a top-six SPL finish for Gretna), but it was immediately clear that the rest allowed us time to recharge our social batteries. I drew up diagrams like I've never drawn them up before, and Port Talbot and Llandudno aided Cenarth in masterminding a presentation for our sub-sub-group of the sub-group. Almost sounds like an Usher rap. But better.
Unlikely: Gretna credibility
8:00pm. Game time. Myddfai and Colwyn Bay welcome us to proceedings, and the groups begin their presentations with smoothness and integrity. I was still glad the rules of the game had been changed, as April was just too early to undergo a task of this magnitude in front of so many people. And apart from anything else, 122 presentations would have sent us all to sleep.
8:30pm. The four speakers from our sub-sub-group (or as Myddfai called us, 'The Beach Group') take to the stage to clean house. Details of the speakers are sketchy, as I'm writing this a good two months after the event, but I definitely recall the talk flowing less smoothly than Tuesday night's effort. Hardly the end of the world though, and after the conclusion the rest of us joined them on the stage for some 'Question Time', David Dimbleby-style. Cardiff had assured me that individual people were never singled out, but I still had a lttle trepidation as we gathered on the stage. Luckily, it went hitch-free, and there were more than enough charismatic people to guide us to safety. As Llanberis remarked that, "I'm glad that's over", a grade B-minus was duly awarded, ensuring that no-one in our sub-sub-group will be expelled from Honours. Unless we balls it up tomorrow.
9:00pm. Things got slightly odd from here. Newport's group lined up to perform their rendition of 'Like A Limestone Pavement', and I thought they did reasonably well. Like us, they were suffering from the effects of the heinous hike (alliteration), and the insane schedule of the week was beginning to wear away at everyone's cohesion and geographical knowhow. But Newport had a lot to get through, and covered the arguments well. Then there was another guy, Fishguard: now he was an absolute legend. Had the place in stitches, so he did, with his unique brand of comedic presentations. Like Llandudno, he has comic ability and timing up there with the best of them, and he raised the spirits of the camp considerably. While anyone else would have described the rock formations in a logical and structured way, Fishgaurd stared at the picture, paused slightly, then turned back to face the audience and sighed, "Well, it's a rock. I mean......what more is there to say?"
9:30pm. Now for the 'odd' segment I alluded to. Upon leaving Lecture Theatre C, I couldn't help noticing a slight discomfort at the level of the presentations. Admittedly, I thought the talks didn't flow as freely as on Tuesday night, but I was hardly in a position to point the finger of blame at people who'd bravely taken to the stage. That would be like armchair pundits in the media routinely bitching about Tony Blair's failure to please 60 million people and...oh, they already do that. Sorry. My bad, as the Americans say.
But rather than just put things behind them, some people always seem determined to play the blame game. One of them in particular seemed to have a problem with Newport's section of the talk, despite the fact that she spoke clearly and concisely throughout. Personally, that irked me. It's not like her group flopped anyway - every sub-sub-group was given a B-minus, so the road to Honours remained wide open, much like a Desparate Housewives character's legs. It wound up with someone blatantly having a go at Newport in the Kilvey reception, with Newport having to defend herself single-handedly. In retrospect, I wish I'd gone in there and defended her. Newport is a lady, and you don't talk to a lady like that. Not unless she's fed ketamine to your pet dolphin or something. It was the one and only argument I saw the whole week, which probably makes it slightly more unpleasant in memory. But it still needs saying that Newport didn't deserve to be treated like that, especially after the perceived 'failure' of a talk that never actually failed. In an instant, I suddenly remembered why I hated presentations so much in the first place. But why do some people's arguments have to be so illogically structured and narrow-minded? I prefer more rounded people. Like Beyonce.
Rounded: Beyonce
9:45pm. But tonight didn't put a downer on the trip. Oh but to the contrary. You may remember that in Monday and Tuesday's entries I mentioned the stellar work done by our Human group, reliably overseen by Anglesey and Holyhead. Well, it turns out the two of them were thrilled with our work, and deemed our presentation on Tuesday night to have bitchslapped the room. That's not a direct quote, you understand. But they felt so humbled by our efforts - almost unfairly guilty - that they decided to reward us in the grandest of manners, and a bottle of bubbly was promptly presented in the Kilvey reception. After some unsuccessful attempts to remove the cork (I'll not name names - well, mainly because I've forgotten them), the task fell to Llandudno to turn the wine bottle into wine. I'll tell you this. Not to undermine Llandudno, but I have the footage on tape, and even with his overpowering might, combined with the fact that half a dozen people had loosened it beforehand, it still took him 43 seconds.
10:00pm. The Kilvey staircase had a constant buzz around it from Sunday evening to Friday morning. I loved the atmosphere that surrounded it every night, with people passing each other and organising impromptu nights on the town. I know we live in the age of mobile phones now, where everyone is only an instant text away, but I maintain that a campus of 20,000 is still too large to form a tight-knit community. And more to the point, I still had no-one's mobile number at this point. With all 122 of us in the one building, the task of establishing and gentrifying (big word) friendships was eased by the dimensions of Kilvey. Tonight Colwyn Bay passed me on the approach to Floor 3. "Are you heading out for a pint?", he queried. I replied, "Yes", but I felt like advising him to stay in for the night. He's got a day on a mountain-top lined up tomorrow, and we don't need any of the lecturers getting drunk in the 'Beacons'. But I'm sure that won't happen...
...
10:10pm. Llandudno, Port Talbot and myself headed to SUSU as part of the champagne-swigging victory party. Not that we officially beat the other groups, but it felt that way. Which was nice, in a darkly comic way. After discussions with co-sub-sub-group members, Aberystwyth came to the executive decision that everyone would have a glass, and the contents of the remainder would be settled afterwards. Strangely, I never saw that remainder. In fact, the whereabouts of this champagne remain a mystery to this day. Was it scoffed by a dastardly group member in the level 2 toilets? Saved by Pembroke Bay and his colleagues to celebrate the smoking ban? Or perhaps it was donated by a generous student to Nerina, and she turned up to collect it in person. Nah, I would have noticed her for sure. And besides, while a glass of champagne would look great in her hands, the words from her song 'All Good People' suggest she's more of a tequila drinker. I wonder if a couple of shots gets her blabbering away about the world and philosophy, and humming.
Nerina: Philosophy
10:25pm. Off to the Owl and Newt we go, having binged the contents of an entire champagne bottle in 15 minutes. Upon our arrival I hear someone allege, "Newport's in there", but after entering the premises I find no sign of her. What I do find, however, is an entralling pool game unfolding before my very eyes. Wrexham, of all people, is challenging another member of staff to the ultimate dream match between two elder statesmen of the trip. Almost by instinct, I begin recording the top quality sporting action, but a thought strikes me. A very disturbing thought, involving the Privacy Act, the dark confines of a police car and a date in Swansea Crown Court. And this time I wouldn't be looking at leaflets on being Welsh, either. I ask Wrexham's colleague, Machynlleth, if I can record, and am informed that I can record Wrexham's shots but not his. Fair enough. My next move, though, is not fair enough. I keep recording regardless of this edict. Wrexham is just too entertaining playing pool, from his potting style to the way he walks, so I view it as a matter of personal entertainment to record the whole game. I will regret this moment tomorrow.
10:35pm. Llandudno and Port Talbot have joined an ever-growing table to the left of the bar. Colwyn Bay is there, and rather bizarrely for him, is deep in conversation with Prestatyn. Don't tell me Colwyn is aligning himself with such a fearful figure. Prestatyn scares me, but Colwyn is supposed to be a legend. What the heck is going on?
10 minutes after that moment of false advertising, Newport finally shows up. I get talking to her, but up at the bar I can't help feeling that someone nearby is trying to overshadow me on the conversation front. I turn to my right, and as I live and breath Wrexham is stood there with a pint in his hand blabbing away to a girl about 2/5 of his age. An entertaining sight, but I made nothing of it before returning to Scotland and finding a picture of them together at the bar on Bebo (my new 3rd home, you could say). The caption was suggestive. Ouch, it was very suggestive. Obviously, I wouldn't want to spread ugly rumours for anyone who hasn't seen the picture. So if I simply tell you the girl was called Haverfordwest, we can draw a line under this affair...sorry, this conversation. Phew.
10:55pm. The bar is getting merry now, with plenty of people drinking in moderation and reminiscing on the day spent on the beach/Mumbles/Carmarthen. People seem intent on mentioning cannabis though. What the frig is this, a night on the tiles with Michael Bloomberg? I remember laughing heartily when the topic of me "getting stoned" was raised, but personally speaking, I'd rather raise money for terrorist neds by cycling through Basingstoke on a Friday night with Colin and Justin on the back seat. And a flat tyre.
Have I got the message across that I hate drugs, I wonder?
11:00pm. Colwyn and Prestatyn seem to be returning to their seats after a lengthy absence. But wait a minute, wasn't Prestatyn coming from the toilet? Oh lord. This is troubling. Prestatyn scares me.
11:10pm. The table is now an eclectric mix of students and staff, including Newport, Port Talbot, Llandudno, Wrexham, Myddfai, Colwyn Bay, Prestatyn and Haverfordwest. And we're all a bit drunk. Haverfordwest is talking to Wrexham (again) when conversation turns to Wrexham's insane lecture rant about America in Feruary. I've never been one to butt in to a conversation, but if the social barriers are being broken, they might as well get razed in one titanic explosion. So to speak. So I duly interrupt:
"I actually recorded that rant on my MP3."
Wrexham looks at me, puzzled, second-guessing, intuitively.
"I hope that's not illegal", I ponder aloud. "Is it?"
"Well, if it was, my first move would be to confiscate your recording equipment and hand it to the police."
Wrexham was ironically interrupted himself, while in full flow (probably by someone offering him cannabis), but my job was done for the night. I had fulfilled a personal ambition of mine by talking to one of the most entertaining lecturers of all time. Now I just had to get back to Glasgow and pull a similar stunt with the legendary Maths lecturer that I think looks like James Brown. I like to call him 'The Godfather of Maths' for a variety of reasons.
Godfather of Maths
11:25pm. Last orders are called at the Paris and Lily (my policy of naming the pub after two random animals continues), so our weary but happily drunken group leaves the premises. Staggering as we go. It's at this point that Newport decides to take the scary lane home to Kilvey, a decision I publicly question. But as I look around me, I find no sign of Llandudno or Port Talbot, while Colwyn Bay and Prestatyn are long gone (don't ask), so it appears my only option is to follow Newport's group up the unlit path of danger and woe. But Newport is good company, so I shan't complain. Behind us are a pack of strange people I've never met before, who insist they're a part of the field trip. I'm a little too drunk to question their integrity. Before I leave, I see details of Paris Hilton's local prostitute business, so decide to photograph the evidence for any future police investigation.
Paris: Comes Cheap
Somewhere in here, Newport links arms with me. I dunno. It wasn't my doing (I'm hardly Darren Day, after all), but I'm perfectly happy to walk her up the lane, despite the fact it scares the concussion out of me. The pack of strange people begin making odd prehistoric noises at this development, so I decide to speed up for security reasons. Talk then turns to my weight (?), so I inform Newport that however slim I appear now, it was a heck of a lot worse four years ago. The irony is, my trip to Swansea actually cost me 5 solid pounds, which I have failed to regain since. I deduce that I'll have to hold more Subway Marathons at the GUU.
11:30pm. Back at Kilvey, Newport is saying goodnight to me, surrounded by the odd prehistoric pack. Then something quite surprising happens. For whatever reason - perhaps the drink, the joyous surroundings of South Wales or the news that Danielle Lloyd has lost modelling contracts since Celebrity Racism - she hugs me. Like I said with the walk up the scary lane, I'm hardly about to launch a legal case, as friends and companionship are/is what I've been looking for on this trip. So I choose instead to feel flattery (is that a word) at the events of the evening. If some of the burks in Prestwick had chosen to be this thoughtful, then maybe I wouldn't have wandered into Swansea so naive about the world. At least I'll come back home having learnt some of the values of true friendship, and discovered what having a good time is all about. But anyway, there's no point crying over spilt Coke Zero, as the phrase goes.
11:55pm. I was about to head upstairs for an early night, when I felt a sudden urge to go exploring. Newport had alerted us to a corridor on the ground floor including a kitchen, TV and toilets, so I felt compelled to pay a visit to this previously unchartered territory. What I found there shocked me. Someone, in their infinite wisdom, had decided to splash out on a piece of genuine broadcasting history, a production for the ages, surely the greatest DVD of this or any other time. Want to have a look?
Broadcasting History: Phil & Fern
Never mind the Office, Fawlty Towers, Only Fools & Horses, Alan Partridge, Coronation Street, Eastenders or even the Teletubbies - this guy clearly knows a great purchase when he sees one. Doesn't he?
12:00am. Upstairs I went. Arriving at Floor 3 with an exhausted demeanour, I could easily have gone up to bed, as was the original plan. Honestly. But I could hear chatter from somewhere, and after conducting my own investigation at the Floor 3 stairwell (ie. standing still and listening), I determined that the chatter could only be coming from one place. The bedroom, general base and HQ of Llandudno.
12:05am. Inside were Llandudno himself, Port Talbot and Aberystywth, who I hadn't seen in a few hours. That felt like an age in Welsh time. As with the Floor 4 party, an infinite supply of alcohol was available in Llandudno's room at any point, so even if you didn't appreciate his high charisma levels, the smart move would still have been to stop by. My general tactic in that room was to lean on the sink, as space was at a premium, and besides, I could always drink from the supply of water filtered from the peaks and valleys of the Brecon Beacons. Aberystwyth offered me a can of beer, to which I politely declined. Aberystwyth, though, was having none of this, so after in-depth negociations I agreed to pay him 60p for the honour of drinking in such a room of integrity. 60p, by the way, is roughly $1 in American money, for anyone reading this Stateside. Like, you know, Stacy Keibler. I'm, um, sure she reads it regularly. She just hasn't had time to leave a comment yet.
Reader: Stacy
12:20am. I can't help thinking that my colleagues had more to drink than I did tonight. In their desparation to finish their infinite supply of beer, they gave me a can and instructed me to take it to a fellow student's room. To this day, I can't remember who. I'm just glad it wasn't Prestatyn. I can just invisage opening the door late at night and being met with an axe. Anyway, Aberystwyth gave me the room number and assured me that, "they'll definitely be in. I went past their door earlier and there was a load of noise." I was sceptical (not spectacle) of this theory, but in my infinite wisdom, I let my exploratory nature get the better of me, and dashed to the stairwell.
The number the gave me was Room 715.
Floor 7 is the lecturers' floor.
Room 715 was Freystrop's room.
Luckily the alcohol content hadn't removed all sense of logic from my head. I stopped outside the door and listened in, to hear the deafening sound of silence. Freystrop probably had the lights out by 9:30. Those dastardly people in Llandudno's room tried to trick me, but I was having none of it. Who's to say what the old...I mean, mature lady would have tried. I'd already received a hug that night from a girl half Freystrop's age, and had no intention to jump a generation in the cuddling stakes. I don't know what image frightens me more: Prestatyn opening the door with an axe, or Freystrop opening the door in her dressing gown? Aberystwyth, Port Talbot and Llandudno planted the latter image in my head when I returned, so before you ask, it's not an image I dreampt up by choice.
1:20am. After a knock at the door, Aberystwyth welcomes in Milford Haven to proceedings. Milford is a guy I haven't really met before, but I do remember him falling asleep on the bus journey down. And snoring. Loudly. Like the rest of us, he's had a bit to drink, but I make sure to chat to him before finally making my departure for bed. Milford and Aberystwyth gave me many words of encouragement about the presentations, and about life in general. It was enlightening to hear such sensible and logical arguments, as they underlined that everyone in Swansea had only one goal this week - to have a great time. They weren't interested in laughing at me or anyone else, and were in fact looking to forge new friendships. It was with a sense of renewed calm that I left the room and crawled into bed at around 2am. Wednesday had seen the peculiar, the mad and the unfathomable, so it was good to have a relatively normal chat at the end of it all. Hopefully Thursday, our last full day in the 'Land of My Fathers' would feature nothing peculiar, mad or unfathomable whatsoever. Hopefully not.
What the heck do I mean, hopefully not? I should know better by now, shouldn't I......?
* to be advanced*
1 comment:
Well written article.
Post a Comment