Now, to business......
Suddenly I see
This is what I want to be
Suddenly I see
Why the frig it means so much to me
7:00am. As my alarm wakes me at the regular time, I take a glance outside the window. In front of me Swansea is bathed in sunshine, so it looks like being another scorcher. I'm not sure I mentioned the weather previously, but it was nothing short of superb. As our teacher for the day, Tregaron, would later point out, last year's atrocious conditions actually lowered the spirits of the students. With that in mind, I'm glad the heavens have stayed closed for the last five consecutive days. Consecutive is a good word. I'll never forget boarding a bus in Dublin and reading, to my astonishment, that the ticket would last for "one consecutive day". What the heck is that, other than a fine attempt at an Irish joke?
7:35am. Breakfast was served from 7:30 all week, but from what I saw, stragglers were allowed to eat heartily until after well after 8am. This morning, Aberdare ran into me (not literally) outside the entrance to Kilvey, at that weird bit with the pointlessly curved path, and asked me to collect his packed lunch from SUSU. No problem, I tell him. Then I get there, and a chilling thought strikes me. What if Mount Snowdon sees me taking two lunches? She'll have me for breakfast, so she will. And that one will be literal.
8:05am. After breaking the fast with Aberystwyth, Lanfair PG and Merthyr Tydfil, it's now time for the showdown. Mount Snowdon single-handedly pushes an entire array of packed lunches through the door, before stopping and surveying the scene. Don't look at me. Whatever you do.
"One at a time! Take one lunch and move on! Don't start swapping!"
Oh no. Did she say 'one lunch'? Oh frig. I'll have to be succint about it then. And if she catches me red-handed, then I'll say I'm eating for two. If Arnold Schwarzenegger can do it, anyone can. I limber up with more discreetness than a CIA torture session at Prestwick Airport, and reach for the first bag I can find. It's a chicken sandwich. That'll do. I consider looking around to decipher Mount Snowdon's position, but eventually decide that even that is a risk not worth taking. So I stare into the veritable abyss of the packed lunch tray, and grab another bag, making hastily for the exit. Inside, it's ham. That's ok. Unless Aberdare is a vegetarian, of course.
Schwarzenegger: Ate for two
8:25am. As it turns out Aberdare is quite happy to take the ham sandwiches, so unless Mount Snowdon has caught me on CCTV and is secretly plotting her next move with the Kray brothers, another operation has been successfully completed. The Red Group is heading to the mountains today, with Tregaron and Machynlleth leading us into the heart of the Brecon Beacons. I remember in days gone by looking at a map of Britain, and wondering what the Brecon Beacons looked like. Today I will finally get to see for myself, in the company of yesterday's sub-sub-group members: Llandudno, Port Talbot and Cenarth.
8:45am. The bus delves into the heart of the Welsh countryside, making a beeline for the Beacons (alliteration). Another colleague from Scotland texts me with some banter from Up North, before discussing the ongoing dramas of his love life. Quite gripping stuff, actually. Then he asks me if he should ask the girl out. Good lord. This isn't the Jeremy Kyle Show, is it? I'm hardly the one to ask about relationship troubles, as my previous attempts have been about as successful as a Glasgow Airport terrorist attack. Perhaps he should ask a veteran of female partners, like Rod Stewart. In an attempt to put his mind at rest, I reply that he simply has to "follow your (his) heart". Which, as many advisers and scholars know, is code for 'I don't have a fecking clue'.
Veteran: Rod Stewart
9:40am. After tackling the Brecon Beacons head-on, our bus has managed to ascend the hillside to a rather bleak looking moor. Luckily the sun is shining, but I imagine that in more inclement conditions (as occurred last year), this place would look more hellish than a 70-yr-old Jodie Marsh. A frightening thought, and it was all too much for one student, who staggered out of the bus, practically fell onto the door of the Machynlleth-driven minibus and proceeded to helpfully remind us what this morning's breakfast looked like. Machynlleth, ever-alert, immediately began a cleanup operation as fellow students gathered round to survey the damage. I've never understood that myself. But who was it who cultivated the Brecon Beacons in such an enigmatic style? Since it was so long ago, I can't honestly remember. Upon looking at the Swansea Handbook (which seems to have been nicknamed 'The Bible', rather sacreligiously), I would narrow it down to Bangor and the unique Llanelli. But I wouldn't want either of them suing me. So I'll just blame Paris Hilton as usual.
9:45am. With the mopping up complete, it's now time to descend onto the moor. But not before Tregaron has villified the perpetrator of 'Beacon-gate' for their sins. The theory was that people could drive past the lay-by, see the 'University of Glasgow' minibus next to a pile of puke and lose respect for the University as a result. Personally, I think the lecturers' strikes, construction over-budgeting, bar-trashing rugby players and racist magazine remarks have given us worse publicity over the years, but I guess you can't be too careful.
9:50am. Tregaron is leading us down the hill into a valley, with each person carrying something to share the load. I have taken a large pole which will eventually be placed in the hillside at various points to decipher the cross-sectional dimensions of the moor. It's a fair old hike when you're weighed down by such geographical objects, but I shan't moan, as the poor souls carrying the "Hanson's Handbags" have it even tougher. The valley has now sunk deeper than the morals of an OC character.
10:15am. After a brief pep talk from Tregaron, it's down to business. Our sub-sub-group heads to the top of a steep embankment and gazes out upon the flood plain beneath us. It could almost be a raised beach. But you don't get many beaches inland, do you? Well, apart from the River Forth, but for the purposes of this argument, that doesn't count.
Forth: Doesn't Count
10:25am. For those who weren't there, the task in the Brecon Beacons was to determine the angles of slopes at various points across the valley. This was done by staring intently from the top of the red part of the pole to the corresponding section of the other pole, positioned 10 metres away. The poles are unfortunately painted in Airdrie United's colours.
11:00am. Our sub-sub-group finally reached the halfway point of the valley, at the River Something-or-Other. If I'd brought my usual posse of maps with me, I could now quote you an exact location, GPS-style, but unfortunately I had no idea where we were by this point. There was a spot of dubiety at this stage, as we debated how to measure the slope angles across the river. Do we take it in three stages (down, across, then up) or attempt an audacious two-step measurement (down to the centre, then back up)? And more to the point, does it make any frigging difference? I attempted to take the lead at this juncture, suggesting the two-step measurement, but it was a naff effort. I was as clueless as Nicole Richie at a Mensa meeting.
11:05am. Cenarth, Port Talbot and Llandudno have all made it across the River Something-or-Other, so it looks like it's my turn. Oh dear. How exactly do I play this? There are a number of rocks strewn across the river, most of which are decidely shaky underfoot. After a couple of failed attempts, I decide to head northwards and try again at a narrower section of water. Again, no luck. Much to my relief (or is that embarrassment), my ridiculous attempts are noticed by Tregaron, who offers to help me across the river. This is feeling all too similar to Colwyn Bay's rescue operation on the Slope of Doom, but I have no option. If I take any more time to cross the river, or suffer a devastating concussion, the sub-sub-group's research could be doomed to failure. So I take the offer of help. Luckily, there is no photographic or video evidence of this moment: I think that would have been too much.
11:15am. Speaking of too much, I had barely reached the west side of the River Something-or-Other when the events of last night caught up with me. I mentioned that I had recorded an entire pool game between Wrexham and Machynlleth during festivities in the Tortoise and Hare, despite Machynlleth specifically asking me not to. Well, after my trek across the river, it was fair to say I was royally stranded. As I turned round to admire the progress made by our sub-sub-group, I could see Machynlleth walking with a purpose. Straight in my direction. He wanted to talk to me about last night. Uh...ok. I'll, em, meet you on the other side, as Keane once sang.
......11:20am. Well, that could have been worse. He asked me to delete the videos, which I promptly did - in between frenzied apologies and intangible fear. But it does raise the old question of privacy in the net generation. I mean, what exactly is legal and illegal to publish online? It's never been properly explained to me, so I do tend to tread carefully when it comes to blogging. Apart from Nerina. I talk about her whenever I want to, really.
Nerina: Never irrelevant
Llandudno comes over to have a chat. Man, he really looks like someone. A famous celebrity. But I can't work out who at this precise moment. Maybe it's Rob Curling, the brilliant Sky Sports News presenter and former host of the legendary Turnabout.
"Did you see that?", I ask. Llandudno laughs slightly - "Yeah." "I thought he was going to tear me apart." Llandudno finds this fear somewhat misplaced, and reassures me that there was "no chance" of a physical assault taking place. Three months on, he will still be trying to reassure me.
12:30pm. Lunchtime. Tregaron is intent on keeping the learning process going, and is describing the characteristics of the river bed. With all due respect, I'm not paying much attention. Llandudno is throwing stones into the water, ably assisted by Port Talbot, so I feel it would be more conducive to the brain to focus on the unfolding action instead. Somewhere in a far flung mountaintop in the Beacons, the likes of Aberdare, Abersytwyth and Newport will be having lunch as well. Aberdare will be tucking into his ham sandwich. He's not a vegetarian, so he should be enjoying the veritable feast provided by Mount Snowdon.
Fact of the Day: Shania Twain was once voted the World's Sexiest Vegetarian, in a move Johnny Vaughan branded "shocking".
Vaughan: That Don't Impress Him Much
1:00pm. Part Two of today's fieldwork sees us heading upstream to measure the speed of the river round a meander. Another member of staff (ok, let's call him Felinfach) is on hand to provide a set of props, including a bucket and a carton of milk. Milk?!? Felinfach explains that as the milk is poured into the river, its white constituency will clearly indicate the pace of the river. Oh, ok. On reflection, that's actually quite ingenious. Apart from the fact it totally compromises all Wrexham's lectures about saving the planet.
1:40pm. Afterwards, a similar study was conducted further downstream, with myself, Cenarth, Port Talbot and Llandudno measuring the river next to a water treatment plant. Water treatment plants look appalling, but I guess they're a necessary part of the fight against pollution (maybe it can filter and clean the milk we just poured in upstream) and global warming. Kind of like when people moan about wind farms "spoiling our countryside", when in actual fact they take up a miniscule percentage of land and help to save the entire planet from the evils of greenhouse gases. Having said that, there's a water treatment plant in my town, and my goodness it looks terrible. Worse than any wind farm known to man. When I finally get Nerina to come to Prestwick, I won't be taking her past that eyesore.
Eyesores: Water Treatment Plants
2:10pm. Four days of non-stop action have taken their toll on the group, but Tregaron has some good news at last. After we hike back to the roadside, bringing the equipment with us, our work will be done for the week. Um, apart from the presentations we have to prepare for tonight. Em, and the task of travelling back to Glasgow. Nevertheless, there is some mild relief amongst some of us, as the week has been more taxing than a Kenneth Clarke budget. I might be having the time of my life, but that time is being spent in a physically exhuasted daze. And as we slowly raise our eyes to the bleak moor ahead, we realise that it's about to get a whole lot worse.
2:15pm. After carrying little of importance on the trek down here, I feel it's only fair that I take one of the Hanson's Handbags (or should they be renamed 'Myddafi's Handbags') back up the hill. Rhyl is nearby, and offers to share the load by carrying the other side. Looking back, it's a ruddy good thing I took his advice. The next 15 minutes would be difficult to summarise accurately, unless I played a death metal song in the background.
The pain was unimaginable, for me at least. I had to stop every minute or so, dropping the Myddfai's Handbag to the ground and almost collapsing in a heap. The temperature that April day was higher than most summer days in Scotland, and I was blatantly in no condition to carry such heavy apparatus across a moor as steeply sloped as this. The Myddfai's Handbags are deceptively bulky, much like Simon Cowell, and I think Rhyl thought I was at death's door as I stumbled aimlessly across the moor. The agony I felt would only be equalled by a 26km trek in Arran later in the year - ironically, also involving a moor. As a result of these painful expeditions, I would now like to renounce my support of all moors, including Sir Patrick Moore, Michael Moore (I hated him anyway) and even veteran Rangers and Newcastle defender Craig Moore. It's the only way of securing a pain-free future.
Moore: Held accountable for pain
2:30pm. Right on cue, the bus rounds the corner of a typically huge Brecon Beacon mountain, and Myddfai himself jumps out the door to meet and greet our group. Why am I the only way who seems close to spontaneously combusting?
2:35pm. The bus is trundling down the hillside to Swansea, and half of us are already asleep. Newport has joined us from her own jaunt higher up in the Beacons, and seems quite worried for my health (not an uncommon concern). I am in the process of assuring her I'm alright when a ruddy big bee flies down the central corridor of the bus, startling the passengers and prompting frenzied screams. Or something like that. After I unsuccessfully try and swot the beast, someone else disposes of it. If I remember correctly, I think they swung at it with a book of some sort (perhaps that 'Bible' thing that people called the 'Bible' even though it wasn't the Bible). It's a good job Prestatyn wasn't on this bus: he probably would have bombed the frig out of that bee. Prestatyn scares me.
With disaster averted, Newport turns her attention to children's TV programmes. After two days of talking about bedrock, I'm happy of the distraction. She seems to be reminiscing about that mainstay of early afternoons, Playdays. The 'franchise' of CBBC, you could say. She has a little trouble remembering the theme tune, so I am more than happy to step in and remind her of the patented cry, "What is the sign on the lollipop? Doo-doo-do-do-do-do-do-do-do". Ok, truth be told, I missed out the last part.
On the way out of the bus I spot Fishguard, he of the great presentation last night. There is only one decent thing to do, really.
"You've got great charisma."
He seems slightly taken aback by the compliment. Or maybe he's perturbed. Anyway, I felt it needed saying, as the monotony of the presentations ("Has anyone got any more questions about fluviglacial rock formation...?") needed some comic relief, and Fishguard's contribution had to be officially recognised. Perhaps he should be honoured in a civic reception with Alex Salmond, much like John Smeaton was.
3:15pm. I honestly can't remember a thing about our return to Swansea. Maybe I tried to go to sleep, or perhaps I made a phonecall to Prestwick. It's no big deal, as long as I didn't do something I'll regret in the long term. Like, start a seven-year affair with a member of the teaching staff? Isn't that right, Chris?
Tarrant: Regrets teacher dealings
4:00pm. We're back in the Geography department of the Uni to prepare one final presentation about the fluvocity (new word) of the Beacons. Tregaron is leading proceedings, but seems confident in our ability to do the job ourselves. Very confident. So confident that she proceeds to leave the room. The next 30 minutes are about as organised as a Babyshambles set. People flit between groups, unsure of their role, while Caia Park wonders how to galvanise a coherent argument for the presentation. And above all else, form some sense of direction. She's not getting very far, as we're almost too tired to think at this stage, let alone prepare a winning talk. Then I have a brainwave.
"I could draw a map."
Ok, when I say brainwave, that's perhaps a slight exaggeration. Like when some bozo on Sky Sports recently said it was "incredible" that Everton had scored a goal at White Hart Lane (no wonder the English language is going down the pan). But I needed to feel like I was doing something, so after much confused chatter regarding the map, during which Welshpool and Talgarth were drafted back in to provide some more brainpower, we decided I would draw a cross-sectional map of the moor, pulling together the measurements from each respective group. Of course, Tregaron had told us to follow a specific formula for ironing out any discrepancies (like corners, bends etc.) in the cross-sectional lines. But we had no frigging idea how to use it. So, after a brief debate and unanamous vote, we decided I would do it the quick and lazy way instead. And I'm very proud of being a part of that decision.
5:00pm. The project is still floundering, however. Tregaron is popping back in every now and then, but it's not enough to steer us back on course. I'm putting the finishing touches to the map, before going over and chatting to Port Talbot and the charismatic Llandudno. When I return, I'm shocked to discover Bangor bounding across the room. Good news, folks. He's sobered up. And he's ready to help Caia Park prepare an ingenious talk, in a stunning turnaround of form. Over the next hour Bangor effectively takes charge of the operation, with Caia as his second-in-command, and somehow manages to rescue the presentation. He even organises a run-through at 5:50, before we disperse for one last dinner at SUSU. But first, he has to establish who the speakers are.
Ah yeah, the speakers. I'd almost forgotten about my quest to achieve oral acceptance (nothing to do with Bill Clinton) in the midst of today's Welsh carnage. If I'm being honest, I seriously considered offering to speak at tonight's talk. But in the end, I decided it wasn't worth the risk. I'd come this far virtually hitch-free, and to jepordise it all for some 'quest' rather than take the sensible option would have been ridiculous. While it was slightly frustating being unable to take the final step, I didn't let it get to me at all. Swansea was already sown in (not literally) as the greatest week of my life, so I was happy to leave it at that. At least I know when to give it up, unlike Hulk Hogan.
Hogan: Obsessed with paycheques
6:00pm. The Last Supper. No, that's sacrilegous. Um, the Last Self Service Restaurant Buffet. Port Talbot and Llandudno have joined me, as I attempt to work out Llandudno's celebrity lookalike. Is it a singer? Gotta be, surely. It transpires that the pair are equally talented in sailing and windsurfing respectively, leaving me to wonder what my main hobby would be. It's probably blogging, which is not exactly an out-and-out hobby. But then, since I got involved with life at Uni, I suppose socialising would fall into that category. And going on ridiculous hillwalks and getting lost on moors. But anyway, Llandudno and Port Talbot certainly seem to get on well with each other. And across the room, restoring the social-antisocial balance, is Mount Snowdon. I'm not sure she gets on well with anyone.
7:15pm. The sub-group of the sub-group (not the sub-sub-group, of course) have gathered for one last logistics meeting before the presentations at 8pm. We've been discussing the specifics of the project for about 15 minutes, and we're now reasonably confident that the talk will go by smoothly. Each speaker is looking for final ideas, in order to create the finished article. In other words, it's all going A-Ok (sp). So what could possibly spoil the tranquility of this pleasant spring evening on the South coast of Wales?
*Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding*
The familiar sound of the Texas cowbell signalled an incoming call on my mobile. Who is it now? Don't they know I'm in the process of a complex pyhsical geography investigation, Gryff-Rhys-Jones-style? I glanced down at the screen to find my very worst nightmare. Not just an 0800 number, but an 000800 number. There were an impossibly large number of digits facing me, but I felt compelled to answer the call. After all, I'm pro-social now, am I not?
I dashed out the room and pressed the distinctive green button on the left hand side of the phone. Please let this be Nerina.
"Hello?"
"Hello Mr. Wilson, I am calling from 3 Network and I wondered if you would be interested in a new offer we are......"
Oh lord. I want to swear. Please stop me.
"...so would you be interested?"
Huh, what?
"I'm sorry, I didn't hear the end of that."
"Basically Mr. Wilson, we are offering you a free upgrade to a pay monthly phone which offers you 250 free texts a month and 100 free minutes a month for just £12.50 a month for the first 12 months of a 12 month contract."
Eh? That doesn't even make sense. You're offering me a discount off a long-term deal that isn't even long-term. Why don't you just tell me I'm getting a £12.50 pay monthly deal? There's no way I'm purchasing this phone. Not now, not ever.
"Um...what features does it have?"
"Basically sir, it has all the usual features that your current phone has, complete with a digital camera..."
...Digital. Aye, that'll be right. The current "digital" camera on my phone is about as detailed as a Congress investigation led by Mike Skinner from The Streets.
"...and a video camera, as well as internet access completely free of charge..."
Oh, interesting...
"...apart from a £5 monthly subscription."
You little git.
"...so if I could just have your bank account details and sort code, we could proceed with the registration, yes?"
No. No chance in frig.
"Yes, ok."
And with that, the next 16 minutes 50 seconds of my life were flushed down the drain in an utterly useless phone call to get an utterly useless phone with an utterly useless price package. £12.50 a month may sound like a bargain, but truth be told, I wasn't even spending £12.50 on my current phone at that stage. Of course, in the ensuing months my expanding social life would contradict that theory, but the fact remained that I had no real interest in buying a new phone at any price bracket. So how was I sucked into it (metaphor)?
I guess the simple reason is that I'm not quite socially invincible yet. Swansea had led me to believe I was capable of anything, but on that Thursday night a little slice of harsh reality was thrown my way. For all my improvements, it was clear I still couldn't cope with salesmen or misleading phone calls. I paced the hallways outside Lecture Theatre B, the scene of tonight's presentations. Up at Theatre C (this sounds like Casualty now), the Human talks were in full swing, overseen by Wrexham and Freystrop. Keep Freystrop away from me at all times.
Back in the foyer, Newport was also pacing around, although hopefully she wasn't getting sold a dud phone simultaneously. I thought about talking to her, but all my efforts had to be focussed on dealing with the call, which was fast resembling a segment from Fonejacker on E4. The guy was like a cross between George Agdgdgwngo and the Indian call centre guy who keeps offering people "free ring-dings". He even had the same accent. The show isn't discriminative against Africans or Indians: it's just discriminative against British companies who employ people on ridiculous wages to sell rubbish products in a language they can't get to grips with. And after 17 minutes of purgatory, I had every sympathy with the guy selling the phone. This was a straightforward case of Deal or No Deal. And I, rather stupidly, was saying 'Deal'.
£12:50 - Generous offer?
7:30pm. Shengus! The presentations! I've completely forgotten! I desparately try and wind down the call, but the call centre guy is still looking for my bank account details. I think I only accepted the phone because (a) I trusted the 3 Network not to feed my bank details to a Russian mafia circle, and (b) I was trying to end the call as soon as possible, and couldn't be bothered having a long argument with him about the merits of Pay As You Go. I'd probably have been quicker telling him to frig off, but that would have been rude now, wouldn't it?
Back inside the tutorial room, the final run-through has already started. Lummy. I feel so guilty. I should have been helping the others in their time of need, and instead I was giving my security details to someone on the other side of the world, in the middle of what felt like an internet prank call. Not a good swap, but the group seem to be cleaning house anyway. I tell you, I'll be glad when the final talk is over. Rumours have circulated all day about a barbeque on the beach tonight, and a group of people led by Aberystwyth and Llandudno are also keen on going into Swansea and 'drinking in moderation' (my edited words). When this is done, a weight will be lifted from all our shoulders, not quite literally.
8:00pm. One last push for the finish line. As Boris Johnson once said on Have I Got News For You - come on gang, we've got to get a grip here. We enter Lecture Theatre B first, slowly followed by the other sub-groups of the sub-group. Myddafi is all business tonight, and doesn't want any dilly-dallying or foul play. He then reveals that our sub-group will be third in line to give our talk - Ok, I have to admit I made that up. I have no frigging idea what order it was.
Let's just say the mountain lot were first. They gave a good talk, outlining the geomorphology of the high peaks of the Brecon Beacons and offering explanations for their theories. One key detail was omitted, though. Aberystwyth would later reveal that a member of the touring party was a little under the weather that day. Or is that, under the influence. Apparently he was staggering around the mountainside, rabbiting something along the lines of, "get all your answers from the course book". These are, of course, unconfirmed reports, and in the magnificent United Kingdom we live in, everyone is innocent until proven guilty. But still, he was blootered by all accounts. His name was Skenfrith, if you're interested.
8:45pm. Our turn. I'm tired now. Even when I think, the sentences are short. Basically, our group handle the subject fine, and while I would have to rank the Tuesday talk as the best of the three (Welshness in public places is liek teh toTally ruLZ!!!!!1), the Thursday effort was very good as well. Once again, we were all asked a series of questions at the end, and while I could have taken the opportunity to pipe up with an answer, I basically couldn't be bothered (honesty is the best policy). And besides, I still didn't really know what I was talking about. Ask me about the globalization of world politics and I'll give you a 5,000 essay on it, or perhaps a 20,000 word blog. But ask me what kind of rock you're pointing at, and I'm as clueless as Jade Goody in an Indian carry-out.
This Q & A session never seemed to end. Myddfai and the legendary Colwyn Bay are certainly efficient lecturers, but they didn't half punish us with wave after wave of tricky questions. Luckily, we had enough competent speakers to fire back quality responses. Or, back at ya, as the youth would say.
We sit back down, borderline euphoric, our work finally done for the week. The last talk is by the group including Newport and Fishguard, but since Newport spoke on Tuesday and Wednesday, she decides to sit it out. Fishguard has another go though. I'm not sure the comedy went down quite as well tonight, which was a pity. The lecturers seemed to prefer more serious talks, and some of us were too exhausted to laugh this time. But his comedy act is a niche, and I'm sure he'll bounce back in the future, much like Noel Edmonds and Eric Cantona.
Cantona: Bounced back
9:30pm. We should be out on the town by now, but the presentations are dragging on with a weary soul and heavy heart. Myddfai and Colwyn seem determined to keep us in here for as long as possible, even breaking clear laws established by the EU Working Time Directive. And Wales was definitely in the EU, last I checked. Myddfai is firing a barrage of questions, both barrels, at Newport, and Newport is almost wilting in the educational heat of battle. Which leaves us stuck in the crossfire, effectively playing the role of Switzerland. The debate gets more and more heated (I didn't know people had such strong views on postglacial erosion, but you learn something every day), and just when I think an all-out brawl is brewing, Myddfai finally calls an end to proceedings. Then, just as we're gathering our stuff together to leave, he tells us to be quiet again, a move that is akin to asking the crowd at an Old Firm game to stop being sectarian. Colwyn Bay then thanks us for giving such stupendous presentaions and awards us all A+ grades, an improvement on last night. In the parting shot, he expresses disappointment at the number of people chickening out of giving talks. Oh yeah? Are you talking to me by any chance? Sorry, I'm not Robert de Niro.
"You'll all have to do them at one point, so it would have been better to get it out of the way here."
Suddenly it feels like Colwyn is singling out me for my lack of participation in the talks. No, quell the paranoia. He must be talking to everyone. And with that, he concludes. Thank frig. I need fresh air, a more relaxed environment, and for the first time in my life, I feel like I really, really need a drink. Not sure that's healthy, but tonight I'm past caring.
Richard Hillman: Causes paranoia
9:45pm. Rhyl is delighted the presentations are finished as well. I would chat to him for longer, but I have to make a quick call home. My parents advise me to cancel the phone upgrade with immediate effect. The poor chap will be calling me back tomorrow morning to go over the deal, so I'm in two minds about what to do. It's quite a good offer, you know. £12.50 a month is not to be sniffed at, literally or metaphorically.
Time to impersonate a binge-drinker.
Thursday Night in Swansea
10:00pm. SUSU. Bar. Pembroke Bay - give me a pint. I place the drink on the table and collapse onto the leather seats. Cardiff and Newport are here, so I'm sitting with them for the time being. It turns out that Cardiff's human presentation was a skoosh, so he is also in a celebratory mood. I've finished about half the pint when Aberystywth, Llandudno and Port Tablot walk in. They're going into Swansea, and they want some company for the ride (walk). I still have approximately 150ml of beer to drink, so ask Abersytwyth if he could wait for a few minutes. No can do - they're going now. I try not to appear rude to Newport and Cardiff, but I had my mind set on going into Swansea tonight and drinking moderately. So I take the pint and ridiculously down the last 1/3, leaving me feeling as ill as a cruise ship kitchen. Abersytwyth and Cardiff find it rather funny. I'm not even sure what Newport thinks. I'm trying to find the right opportunity to say thanks to Newport for being so nice to me all week, but am wary of the fact that such a statement might sound a bit, you know, weird. I rush downstairs to join the others outside. If she's at the beach barbeque (alliteration) tonight, I'n not sure I'll see her again before tomorrow.
Outside, a crowd of people had gathered at the promenade roadside, including Merthyl Tydfil, Cardigan, Lanfair P.G., Ffestiniog and Ganllwyd. They were attempting to hail taxis into the city centre, but no-one was stopping for them. A bunch of drunken students waving their arms in the air wasn't a particularly pretty sight, but I'm sure it happens quite regularly in Swansea. Eventually one had the guts to stop, and Aberystwyth, Merthyr Tydfil, Ganllwyd and Cardigan jumped in, Swansea-bound. I have no idea where Ffestiniog and Lanfair went at this point. Perhaps it was a people-carrier, and they managed to fit in the back (gas-guzzling vehicle, unfortunately). In any event, it left me somewhat stranded at roadside with Llandudno and Port Talbot. Which left only one option. The traditional Swansea option. To knacker ourselves walking in.
Drunk students: Regularly seen in Swansea
10:15pm. Llandudno is finishing a can of beer in public (is that legal west of the border?), before flinging it onto the grass verge between the pavement and the road, prompting me to dash over and pick it up for conservational reasons. He laughs, showing now-customary charisma, and asks, "Why are you bothering, man?" I can't remember my exact response, but it was probably something like, "Because it's my mission".
10:25pm. We pass the Rugby Club. Where the heck are the bins in this city? I've been carrying the can (literal twist on well-known phrase) for 10 minutes now, but can't seem to find one. If I'd had a map with me, this week would have been very different, not that maps show the location of bins. They should, though.
10:35pm. Looming on the horizon is a friendly-looking pub by the name of Glamorgan. Llandudno and Port Talbot are feeling rather thirsty, and ask if we should pop in for a quick drink. Why not, eh? You only live once, and unless my life takes a shockingly Welsh twist, I'll only binge drink in Swansea once.
Inside, the pub is cosy and welcoming, but just about as un-studenty as it gets. An old man leans on the bar, stoicly refusing to take a seat. The barman washes pint glasses, attempting to keep up the spirits (pun) of the old man by telling some anedoctal stories. Llandudno advises me to purchase a Smirnoff. I pause hesitantly, questioning if this is the best move. I've never had Smirnoff before, and it could provoke a nasty reaction deep down inside me (I'm talking physically, not emotionally). Port Talbot giggles slightly - "You'll like it. Go on, try one and see what it's like."
We sit down, and I gaze with intent at the drink before me. It looks quite good, that's for sure. I take a sip, immediately noting the acceptable taste and fairly low alcohol content. Twenty minutes later, I'm finished and ready to go. Port Talbot seems happy, surprised almost, that I've taken to a new drink so quickly. It's only as we leave the premises and walk eastwards that I turn to Llandudno and ask, "So what's actually in Smirnoff?"
"It's vodka."
...
Vodka was the first drink I ever had.
I feel like a tool. Shows what I know about alcoholic brand names. But I have asked people in the past if Tennents and Fosters is "mixing drinks", so it should be no surprise really. I suppose technically, the Lambrusco I supped at relatives' houses would be my first alcohol. Lambrusco - almost sounds like Llandudno. In a way.
Smirnoff: Type of Vodka
11:00pm. In the midst of this, we seem to have gotten rather lost. We know we're heading east, but is it north-east or south-east? Or, even more dramatically, south-south-east? An old man waddles towards us, and Llandudno prepares to ask him for directions to Wind Street (where Aberystwyth and Co. have allegedly wound up). Both Llandudno and the old man are braver citizens than me, as I would run a mile from a group of students at 11pm at night. But the man is a great help, and gives us directions with pinpoint accuracy to Wind Street, even throwing in an anecdote or two along the way. At this point, we're rather confused it the address is Wind Street or Wine Street, partly because we're very quickly getting drunk.
11:10pm. Llandudno needs the toilet. Despite the fact we were just in a pub. He finds a large building with an irregular design, and disappears behind a pillar. A minute later he reappears, smiling. Shocking. But it's only illegal if you get caught, so it's also admirably astute.
11:20pm. We near a corner in the road, and are curious to see what lies round the other side. Fortunately, the ever-increasing din of noise answers our question for us. People are screaming, cars are revving and skimpily-dressed women are walking towards us. This, quite clearly, is Wind Street.
A cacophony (sp) of sound greets us as we round the corner. Bar after bar lines the left hand side, and nightclub after nighctlub lines the right. I've been in a nightclub once. Terrible experience. Paid £8 to get in and each drink was £3. The only entertainment was a couple of poorly organised and sloppily executed catfights. But who's this walking towards us? Why, it's Bangor and the unqiue Llanelli. Is this irony or what?
Llanelli explained that Bangor and he were desparate to get into a nightclub tonight, and emulate the drunken escapades of some of our fellow co-students at Jumpin' Jaks. Apparently, some of them were stripping naked on the stage. Unless Lita and Stacy Keibler were in town for a tag team performance, I certainly wouldn't be heading along. Speaking of Bangor, I guess I should apologise for my gaffe in an earlier blog, where I incorrectly stated that Roma played Manchester Utd on the Tuesday. This was, of course, a heinous error on my part, as the fiery game didn't take place until the Wednesday. Compensation can be offered to frustrated readers, Seguro-style.
Lita and Stacy: Formidable tag team
Bangor and Llanelli disappeared into the night, but it wasn't long before we found Abersytwyth's faction again. They were struggling to get in anywhere, as the Easter weekend was leading Welsh binge drinkers to the metropolis of Wind Street. In the end, the more sensible option of Wetherspoons was settled upon, and all we had to do now was stagger our way to the entrance. How we found our way there, I'll never know.
12:00am. It's getting late, and I'm getting obtusely skootered (Newport is always looking for new phrases for drunkeness, so there's one). We're supposed to be leaving Swansea at 8:30 tomorrow morning, so if I get up at 7am, that means I'm getting less than seven hours of sleep and counting. Merthyr Tydfil and Abersytwyth give me a list of instructions for ordering a round of shots, but I'm having trouble remembering them as I stumble my way to the bar. I should have keyed them into my phone at the time. When I finally make it to the bar, I've only just remembered the order. The barman says he doesn't sell any of it. You're having a frigging laugh. I virtually crawl back to the table, organise another order and return to the bar, this time with Aberystwyth in tow. This time, all goes to plan, and we somehow manage to carry the shots succesfully back to the table.
*one shot later*
It's difficult to impersonate drunkeness in a blog, but at this precise moment I think my thoughts could be roughly summarised by this excerpt.
"Ummmm...Wales...wow this is a big table isn't it? Hahahaha - it's so massive...uhhhh...oh, Abersytwyth, Dunfermline...incredible Scottish Cup run...ahhhh...Nerina...lot of chairs around here...I'm so happy we've got chairs...uh, oh no I've spilled a shot."
I looked down to see half the table drenched in a shot with an unpronounceable (sp) name. Immediately, I reached for a leaflet I had picked up earlier in the week (probably at Swansea Crown Court) and attempted to mop it up as quickly as possible. I think it made more of a mess. Lanfair P.G. was smiling wryly at this point, and Llandudno was laughing his darned head off. I grabbed my camera phone, and tried standing up. It didn't work. I tried again, and somehow clambered to my feet before turning round and uttering a truly incomprehensible statement about JPegs. Almost miraculously, the group understood exactly what I meant. So here is the aforementioned JPeg.
I would consider this one of the classic Swansea line-ups, including Ffestiniog, Port Talbot, Cardigan, Llandudno, Merthyr Tydfil, Lanfair P.G., Ganllwyd and Abersytwyth. I randomised the order of the names there (Privacy Act 1974), so it's not a left-to-right caption. Afterwards, Llandudno had a picture taken with Port Talbot and Cardigan. I suppose that gives away Llandudno's identity anyway. But pretending he's called Llandudno is still quite fun, in a self-contained sense.
12:45am. Last orders have been called, so we're drinking up and heading back to the streets. I'm wanting to head back to the Uni, as tomorrow's bus journey will be pure hell on earth if I don't get a proper sleep. But Port Talbot is adamant (not Adam Ant) that I stay. She maintains that the point of life is to go out and have a good time, not sit on your ass waiting for something bad to happen. Abersytwyth is suggesting we head back down Wind Street, an idea that would on a par with the second series of Cirque de Celebrity. But after a majority vote, it's Wind Street we're heading. To.
1:00am. No sign of Bangor or Llanelli (they're probably still auditioning for the Welsh version of the Full Monty, or the Full Montllych), so we tread carefully on the cobbles of Wind Street. This could be Coronation Street, only with no serial killers or six-month lulls in decent storylines. To the right is a hybrid bar/club by the name of the Pitcher and Piano. It's closing soon, but it still looks like the best bet, so we charge on in. And what do you know, we find yet another colleague of the field trip, Llangynin. Finding Geography students in Wind Street is like the old adage of three buses coming along at once, which is ironic, as we'll all be travelling home on three buses tomorrow.
1:15am. Llandudno and Aberystwyth are in fiercely competitive moods, and are even suggesting partaking of some sporting combat. On such cramped premises, that's normally a bad idea. But the competition, in this case, is a good old arm wrestling match. I act as referee for the bout, and oversee a tough battle between the two. In the end Llandudno prevails, and laps up the respect and awe from the audience. Another contest is suggested, as Merthyr Tydfil offers to take on any contenders. Somehow, my name is thrown into proceedings, and before I know it I'm in position, locking arms with Merthyr. This is ridiculous. The idea of hurting a woman scares me somewhat, although I realise I'm hardly Wayne Rooney in the league table of brutes.
Fierce Competition: Arm Wrestling
The contest is underway. I'm trying to be careful not to injure Merthyr permanently, but in doing so, I let my guard down somewhat. Merthyr is in control and, much to my chagrin, close to victory! In one last drunken rush of energy I reclaim the momentum, finally forcing a hard fought victory. Merthyr Tydfil has hurt her arm in the process. I feel like scum.
1:30am. Wasn't this place supposed to close, like, 15 minutes ago? Oh well, I enjoy finishing my drink at a more leisurely pace as everyone continues to get absolutely skootered. I'm in arguably the best mood of my life, but for some reason I still want to go back to Kilvey immediately. This heinous paradox requires another pep talk from Port Talbot, who repeatedly assures me that staying out tonight will not spell disaster tomorrow. I still take some convincing, until finally I relent, and agree to stay until closing time. Whenever closing time is, in this never-ending bar/club hybrid. But I feel particularly touched (not literally) at being given such encouraging advice, especially in the middle of an insane night such as this. Without wanting to be too rude, some of the people I've been around in the past have been anything but encouraging. It's well known that one of the main points of friendship is to help other people when they're feeling a tad lost or disgruntled, but for too long I was on the receiving end of some non-stop abuse. Glasgow and Swansea have made me realise that I don't have to stand (or sit) for it anymore: I can just hang around with friendlier people instead.
At this point I wanted to stand up and tell the entire table how happy I was. But the music was too loud. Ridiculous, eh? I can't remember what song it was (although, knowing April 2007, it was probably that Gwen Stefani one that went "Ooo-oooh - OOOOOOOO-OOOOOOOOH!"), but I just remember that it wasn't Nerina Pallot. Who knows, maybe it was Beyonce? The two of them should do a duet, you know. Beyonce wouldn't be quite as good at humming, but then, who on earth is?
Beyonce: Would lose humming contest
2:00am. The Pitcher and Piano finally closed for the night, and we once again attempted to hail a taxi. This time, a driver actually acknowledged our existence, and after performing a dramatic skidding 3-point-turn on Wind Street, Port Talbot, Llandudno and I jumped in and headed west. I have no earthly idea where the others went. The Barbeque? The Mumbles? A skinny dip in the Irish Sea? No, on second thoughts, our co-students had provided Swansea with more than enough nudity for one night. Ghastly. Absolutely ghastly.
2:10am. We're back at Kilvey, and Llandudno and Port Talbot are heading upstairs for yet more banter. I'm enterting the reception when a figure appears next to the lifts, pressing the button and waiting for the dangerously antiquated lift mechanism to churn into gear. It can't be who I think it is, can't it? Oh lord, it is.
It's Newport.
What the frig do I do now? About four hours ago I was trying to say thanks to her for all the chats we'd had, but had decided it would sound forced and slightly odd. And now I'm going to be sharing a lift with her? What do I say? This is a moral dilemna and a half. Hmmmm, I'll see what happens.
"Hi Craig!"
"Yeah, hi."
"Did you have a good night?"
(Bear in mind I was still heavily drunk when I prepared this response)
"Yeah, well I was, em, in the city and then I was at a bar, and stuff. It was really good. And I'm kind of a bit drunk, really."
She laughs. I think. Then she asks what floor I'm going to.
"Well my room's on Floor 4, so yeah, that's where I'll...uh, yup."
Lifts are bad places for drunkards. You already think you're floating, then the lift moves and you just get more confused.
"So did you go, em, to that drinking thing on the beach with the alcohol beer?"
Just as she begins saying that it was a good laugh, the lift reaches Floor 4. Time for me to leave, isn't it? Well, isn't it?
Um...not exactly, I proceed to stand in the doorway, impeding the upward progress of the lift. I talk some absolute gibberish to Newport, who gives comparably ingenious responses. Then before I know it, the doorway starts closing. With me in the middle. Disaster is averted as I reach for the button and reopen the doors, but it's clear I'm stalling for time. The next two minutes have must have been absolutely bizarre for her to have witnessed. The doors would keep closing, I would keep reopening them, and all along I had nothing of interest to say. In theory, I was trying to find the right way to thank her, but in practice, it probably looked like I had lost my sanity. It might sound a bit weird to want to thank someone for just talking to you, but I felt I was kind of indebted to her for her friendliness the whole week. Before Swansea I was still drastically undertrained in the social stakes, and I wanted to let her know that I appreciated her constant conversations (alliteration), from Southwaite Services to the Limestone Pavement and beyond. But I couldn't manage it, rather pathetically.
"You know this is your floor, Craig?"
"Whu...oh yeah, right. Late now...um, in tomorrow, uh, I'll see you. Yeah...bye."
And I was out on the stairwell again. Lord, this area still stinks of beer. Fosters, apparently. At least we didn't get kicked off campus for it. The explorer in me fancies seeking out people to talk to, so I head down to Floor 3. Then it hit me - if I don't have it in me to say thanks to Newport whilst drunk, what chance have I got sober?
2:25am. Llandudno's room is still sounding lively, so I head on in. Port Talbot is there, attempting to keep Llandudno awake with stories and anecdotes aplenty. He fell asleep earlier, in between arm wrestling contests at the Pitcher and Piano, and he's in danger of slipping into unconciousness again. The two of them start discussing relationships, which would normally be my cue to leave. But what the heck, why not stay and listen? I might learn a little of the inner philosophies of people's love lives. Then go to Jersey and employ a few of the tactics with Nerina.
Llandudno asks if I've ever cheated on a partner. Hmmmm. What's the most sensible answer to give here? Do I give a politician's answer, reeling off a load of statistics with little revelevance to the question? Do I pretend I actually have cheated, in a lame attempt to look cool? After all, Abi Titmuss' career took off after her addiction to orgies was revealed, in full colour.
"No."
That was probably the best answer all round. I could go into the reasons why not, but my goodness, it would be an embarrassing end to the evening. Although not quite as embarrassing as Llandudno falling asleep again halfway through the discussion.
2:55am. It really is time to go to bed now. Llandudno is woken up by Port Talbot, and the pair bid me good night. What a marathon of a day, but I really need some sleep, as tomorow will be as lengthy as a Jonothan Edwards triple jump. And besides, sexually explicit talk is not my cup of tea. Especially since I don't drink tea.
3:00am. I take one final wander up the floors of Kilvey. I'm beginning to sober up very slightly, which is a pleasant experience. Floor 7 isn't a very lively place, probably because it's the lecturers' base. I move towards the lobby, where two girls are entering the lift. I'm quite used to avoiding people deliberately, but this week I've decided to try and kick that habit, smoking-style. I walk past the lift in clear view of the girls. I'm almost at the corridor door when they start speaking to each other. And I almost walk into the door when I hear what they're saying.
"What I would do to get him......"
The lift door closes. I turn 180 degrees, almost tripping over myself, and collide with the centre of the building. The lift is going down, which means it's almost certainly heading for the Ground Floor. I pause for a spilt second, trying to decipher what in frig's name has just happened? Who were they? Did they really say that? What do they mean? Before I know it, I'm through the stairwell door and careering down the steps to the Ground Floor. I don't even know what I'm doing when I get there, all I know is that I have to get to reception immediately.
Floor Five, Floor Four. It all happened so quickly. What were they talking about? They were looking at me as they said it. Was it Lita and Stacy, perhaps returning from their stripping session at Jumpin' Jaks? Or was it possibly Beyonce and Nerina, finally recording that long-awaited duet? And what am I doing running down seven flights of stairs for two girls I've never even met before? Am I still drunk? Did I hallucinate the whole thing? Floor Three passes by in an instant. Floor Two is even quicker, and I find myself at the entrance to Floor One in record time. The final flight of stairs features an extra half flight (similar to the concept of 'Time and a Half'), and I reach the final dozen steps to see two girls exiting the lift and passing through the doors to reception. Strategically speaking, I have to hang back here. I have no idea what to say if I just burst through the doors like some kind of celebrity stalker. I mean a stalker of celebrities, not a celebrity who stalks. Although you probably get them, too.
Ten seconds pass. I peer through the doors. There's no-one there. I pass through reception and out into the cold Welsh night. They've gone. They've ruddy well gone and done a disappearing act. Do they think they're Dirty Den or Harold Bishop? This is quite a unique position to be in: it's not every day you find two women in a lift trying to hit on you, then the next minute they've done a runner. So what the heck do I do now? Well, simple. I take a photo of Kilvey, don't I?
3:15am. The long trudge up the stairs wasn't the nicest of experiences, but I suppose it could be a lot worse. Just think what John Prescott's mistress had to face at 3:15 every morning. I made a point of avoiding the lift, after my slightly embarrassing conversation with Newport, and went straight to bed. Yes, I actually made it there this time. As I fell into bed, I tried to make some sense of what had happened this evening. Much of it was almost too mad to describe, let alone analyse. Then I thought of the moment outside the Glamorgan. A pub I'd never been in before; a pub that could have been filled with heavies; a pub that could have been rougher than John Leslie's sexual history. And without even thinking, I went right on in, a decision that would have seemed improbable to me a year ago. And why did I go in? Why did I do everything I did tonight?
Because it was time to live.
And if I could just get round to thanking Newport on the trip home tomorrow, then I would have lived the most stupendously life-changing week of all time. Not bad going for a field trip down the M6.
*To be concluded*
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