Wooooo! We’ve all finished!!! Unless you do a proper degree, like one involving numbers, or if you’re not a third year, or if you’re not even a student, or if you’ve failed all your exams and have to do them again.
But ignoring this small majority, it’s time to party! Then, when you’ve run out of money within a few days, it’s time to not party! Wahey!!! So what can the metropolitan graduand-about-town do with their newly-acquired spare time? Hmm? No, you can’t do that. Or that. Sorry. Hey, don’t worry, little guy. Things will turn out O.K, I promise. I compiled a list for you. It’s called ‘Things you could and shouldn’t do’. It’ll make everything better again, like they were before Daddy left.
Organise a protest march. After everyone realised that Bush’s War on Foreigners and tuition fees were really great ideas after all, there’s been a dearth of banner-bearing students gallivanting down roads in London. More please. There’ll be at least one amateur political theorist who, in an attempt to impress a girl, protests too eagerly and gets ACTUALLY DEVOURED by police dogs. Also, the march as a whole will be shown for around twenty seconds on Channel 4 News, and, from above, resemble a huge, politically active Chinese dragon. But made of placards. If there aren’t any issues against which to slap your umbrage, then abuse a social minority first. Then protest away!
In every group of friends, except those who met through a sports team, there’s always one pseudo-intellectual BASTARD who physically poops a philological poop on the post-degree party by informing everyone that, now they’ve finished, they’re going to attend the lectures of other subjects. Instead of embarking upon this Pooptopian voyage, however, you could write and present a series of your own lectures. Try it yourself! For example, I know a lot about the computer game ‘Lemmings’ – so I might give one lecture on the different skills, one on some of the more interesting levels, and one on the sequels, such as ‘Oh No! More Lemmings’, ‘Lemmings 2’, and ‘Lemmings 3D’. What am I saying. I’m such a breast.
Don’t jump in the lake. Too many other people have been there before, it’s cold, wet, and slimy, you’ll contract numerous diseases, and you might get a duck lodged up your anus. If you want that experience, go on the bonk in Ziggy’s on a Friday.
Have a campus wank.
Have a nuzzle through your old photos from the first year. When the nostalgic tears have dried, and the scars reopened by memories of Hilda, and the good old boys who went to fight for their country, have once again closed, oh, times were hard, then do this please: Find a photo taken at a party. Find a person who you don’t know in the background of said photo. Then actually go and find them, and, brandishing the photo, talk to them about how great that party was! Yeah! Those were wild times, man, wild times! We should totally catch up sometime! Yeah! Then, after befriending them for the last two weeks of your university life, deliberately offend them and never see them again.
When I was young, if I told my mum that I was bored, she’d always suggest the same list of activities. ‘You could draw a picture,’ she’d proffer, ‘or play in the garden, or write a story.’ But, mum, I know I can do those things. You’ve suggested them every time I’ve asked for the past seven years. Have you got any other ideas? ‘You could draw a picture. Or play in the garden, or write a story.’ Good idea, mum! They all sound like lots of fun! You big spanner. So why not pay homage to having too much spare time by ringing up my mum and, without so much as a by-your-leave, repeatedly tell her to ‘Draw a picture! Play in the garden! Write a story! Draw a picture! Play in the garden! Write a story! Draw a picture! Play in the garden! Write a story!’ Try variations, such as foreign languages, or culminating in a four-part harmonised choral piece which makes t’old Brenda Searle believe she’s actually just received a phonecall from God.
One night, when the moon is shining beams of celestial value unto rogues and vagabonds, nip into all the computer rooms on campus. Log on to each computer individually, then push the mouse down through the inevitable brush-covered hole. The mice, having crossed their equivalent of the river Styx, will never be found again, and you will have total control over the university. And infinite lives. Get a job.