Last night was… interesting.
I went to the Student Union awards; a very fancy affair; as a delegate from the Nightline Committee.
The agreement was that what with it being the end of the year, because they thought I’d done a particularly good job, I could come to the awards, but I wouldn’t be able to do any shifts anymore on account of standing up on a stage with the other committee members and accepting an award for Nightline kind of ruining my anonymity. I’m in a sort of limbo state; I’m a Nightline alumnus, of a sort.
This swanky event ended with free entry to the club afterwards, which started off well, but quickly descended into a series of minor irritations that flowed through until this morning.
It started with girl troubles, obviously. After an awkward encounter with someone I knew, I felt a bit down, but pulled myself together and realized further debauchery could be found elsewhere.
I went for another drink, where I met a friend of a friend who recognized me and revealed it was her birthday and cheekily requested a drink. I asked her what she wanted and bought her sambuka shots. She then claimed to have no memory of the conversation that had literally just happened, and gave me a look like I was one of the sexual deviants that loiter places such as those. I contested that I hate sambuka and asked what to do with the shots; because I had no desire to drink them whatsoever.
I’m man enough to admit my love-life isn’t as successful as others; I don’t go to the club to flirt with the chickas; I know my place. And as such I simply go to clubs to get black-out drunk and jive my problems away. So when the bartender thought he’d be the big man and step in, telling me not to hassle these girls thinking I’d just chosen two randomers to impress myself on (shit off mate, I’m far too lax for that), his look implying that I was just a pervert rather than a guy buying a drink for someone AS HE WAS TOLD TO, an overwhelming desire to punch him in the throat consumed me. I didn’t do that, obviously; I’m a lover, not a fighter; and I’m pretty sure punching bar staff gets you thrown out of the club pretty quickly. He really killed my vibe.
I left soon after. I couldn’t be arsed with the club mentality anymore. I departed alone and sobering, after accepting a drink off of another random black guy with a similar penchant for colourful clothing who had imposed on me the status of ‘brother’. Along with the various people who had told me how dapper I was looking in my formal wear, I suppose that the good balanced with the bad.
I was further cheered by various drunkards heading home, who assured me that ‘everything would be alright’, and from how I looked they ‘felt the same way’ in their unsuccessful nights and offered me condolences. I was just trying to have my cigarette, but it was appreciated nonetheless. Then, I had to be at the bank for an appointment at ten this morning, only to find out that the woman who had scheduled my appointment was just talking complete bollocks the previous time we met and dragging myself out of bed and rushing into town was entirely unnecessary. And don’t even get me started on the guy who took too long at the cash machine.
But why am I telling you this? Yes, you specifically. I suppose it’s because it sort of sums up my time in Leicester to a surprisingly accurate degree.
I have a failing and rather non-existent love-life, but for now I am at least content with it; alcohol isn’t my friend, so much as an abusive partner that I cannot escape; and I really love the people here but honestly don’t have much to say about the place because it hassles me into making long excursions for no apparent reason on a regular basis.
And that bartender. What a prick; standing up for girls potentially in distress; people today, gentlemen peddlers of booze who I frequently find myself having misunderstandings with. Who does he think he is?!
I jest of course; maybe it’s just me..?
It’s not, but I feel like my elongated ramblings about that bartender make it sound like I was in fact hassling this girl, so I’m going to move on with the knowledge that I wasn’t in the wrong and readers know that I’m not that kind of guy.
So what now? It’s coming to an end, my time at Leicester university. I’ve made some great friends, and… well… I haven’t worked hard on my degree; hence why I feel the need to do a Masters and make sure I’ve not wasted four years of my life, but when I have tried it’s been enjoyable.
But sometimes I look back, and I wonder, what I’m proud of from my time at university other than my friends? And the main answer I can come up with is my time in Nightline.
When it comes to societies I’m a pretty useless member; I feel like most of them should just revoke my membership on account of me being generally illusive. But I can happily say I tried with Nightline, and as a result, I’ve met some fantastic people and have some inkling that I’ve made a difference in people’s lives. I took calls; I made sure we didn’t close all too often; and at the end of it I arranged a night out wherein I could ply people with drinks as a thank you and make them some snazzy certificates. Not that I’m being immodest here, but I feel like my A Level Art really shone through.
Not only did it provide me with great friends and a purpose, but it also allowed me the chance to test my stamina dancing around dressed as a bear, attend what was and will be the fanciest ceremony I ever go to in my forthcoming bleak and desperate life, and go to a conference and find out that not only are Leicester Nightliners fantastic, but their fellow members around the country are equally amazing.
So that’s it really. I’m not sure what to do now. I’m just sitting here, drinking alone in the sun, and as my housemate just remarked, upon me explaining my reasoning for purchasing Becks, I seem to be on my way towards alcoholism.
Which is perfect really, because I feel like writers are far too romanticized, and although I’m not one yet, my plans to do this Professional Writing MA suggest that I should get into the writers mindset, which, to me, means heavy drinking, smoking, failure and a general hatred of everything. It will be a sad existence but maybe one day I’ll get to meet Spielberg and he’ll reject my script and I’ll know I almost made it.
I realise on the whole this sounds a tad pathetic, and there’s obviously more to it than these minor petty things, but really, that’s none of your business. Stop being so intrusive. God!