Henry James Foy
I’m being moaned out of my house. Once a joyful building populated by some of the most exciting people I knew, my abode is now filled with the mumbles and grumbles of those for whom the looming onset of graduation means only one thing: dissertation doom.
It has got to a point now where even a polite “Have you had a nice day?” is a soul-destroyingly big mistake. Without fail, the crushingly predictable answer will revolve around (at least) ten minutes of hyperbole-filled whinings about “the final 1,000 words”, or “the tricky conclusion”. Seriously, tell somebody who cares. Your supervisor, perhaps.
It’s not like I don’t care about the education of my housemates. I sincerely hope that they all do incredibly well – and I know they all have the potential. I’m just a little worried that with all this complaining, they can’t have an awful amount of time to spend writing.
Frustratingly, there are far easier things to moan about in our grim excuse for a home. This week our drain flooded, leaving the yard – as I like to call it – awash with our raw sewage. My smoking housemate was aghast that his only worldy pleasure would be ruined by uneaten rice and grey sludge lapping up against his Dolce & Gabbana lace-ups. Our kitchen has fallen back into refugee camp mode after a brief period of cleanliness and the water board are threatening court action in seven days. My suggestion that we let them take us on over £138 was met with something resembling “I’ve got a fucking dissertation to do, don’t you know?!” Well, yes, actually. It’s painfully obvious.
One of my second-year housemates even went as far as running away to Scotland, well-regarded as the most morose, miserable, complaint-filled place in the whole world, to escape the miserable atmosphere that has engulfed our household like a toxic cloud of mustard gas. I’m worried that if I spend too much time with the doom-mongerers, I might start the intellectual hypochondria
nine months early.
Perhaps most annoying is the counter-attitude evinced by my two other third-year sufferers, proving an alternative is certainly possible. One, who literally crawled across his degree finishing line with a face full of stubble and an empty bottle of gin at least did it with a smile on his face, while the other is either blithely skipping towards judgement day without a care in the world, or at least keeping his worries – and his frenzied revision – to the safety of his bedroom.
To add insult to ear-bleeding injury, the two moaners-in-chief have absolutely nothing to worry about. One was selected from a list of 600 applicants to join the best graduate recruitment program for her industry of choice, while the other has a place on the MA course of her dreams. So, you see, it’s all for show. I just didn’t buy a ticket, nor want one.
I’ve been promised that by the time you read this, the agony (for both them and I), will be over. This could be the arsenic lining on my particular cloud. I’m only starting to come round to the horrifying idea that two extraordinarily chirpy and carefree souls may well
be worse than the current predicament. Third-year housemate No.1 – the gin bottle chap – exorcised his freedom in various Northern cities, and was for all accounts AWOL for a week. The chances of Grumpy and Grumpier doing likewise is slim.
Thus, to avoid inflicting the same upon second-years next year, myself and my other co-years in the house are holing up in a 3-bedroom retirement flat. Still, if I happen to grab you outside the Jet Garage on a gin run, don’t ask if I’ve had a good day. I’ll have serious vengeance issues. If there’s one thought that has crossed my mind most in the past week, it’s whether or not the heartbroken lad or lassie who risked all self-respect and dignity to win back the lover they had lost through the medium of Rape Alley’s uncompromising tarmac.
‘People make mistakes’, it began self-affirmingly, ‘And God knows I’ve made loads’. At this point I expected some juicy gossip to emerge, hopefully leading to the writer’s identity, but unfortunately only affirmations of love were to follow. But did it work? I imagined every jilted lover whose ex was emotionally unstable and had a good stock of white paint in their garage making a rather uncomfortable phone conversation with the dumped, who would in turn curse the man (or woman) who had the romantic idea first. Someone out there may have won back their beau with the biggest gamble of their (love)life. Still, most likely is that someone who spent three days crying, then one night painting, is still bawling their eyes out. Chin up. Everyone loves a trier.
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You know how Henry James Foy likes to introduce himself as ‘Henry James Foy- Editor of Nouse’?
On the back of the frankly enormous picture of him in his strange and unusual rant on Page 4 of Snooze, sorry, Muse, whoch is headlined with just his name (which says it all really) I have a new one…
How about ‘Henry James Foy- His Ego Knows no Bounds’
Just a thought.
I never read Nouse because frankly its a bore. BUT this article caught my attention but only because of the huge picture of some idiot who’s clearly got too much ego so I totally agree with the previous comment.
And the article itself is utter rubbish, everybody likes to have a moan… so what????? Thats what friends are there for, to listen to a good moan! Clearly Mr Henry James Foy- Editor of Nouse dont ya know cannot be a true friend to actually publicly complain about and slate his friends like that. Does it really matter that they actually care about doing well in their Uni work, maybe to them it matters more than a rubbish student newspaper??? How dare they!?!
This isn’t an article, it’s the dullest, most predictable thing I’ve ever read… How did this guy ever become editor of Nouse? Actually, I think the answer’s in the question. Liam O’Brien has a far better writing style and his articles actually hold the attention.
Moaning about moaning…. how original.
Load of rubbish. Not as bad as destructors though.
I suppose it’s a fairly familiar story in the political world or in literature, Shakespeare or Greek tragedy, that power corrupts and in the end those qualities that put you in power can bring you down.
Be careful Henry James Foy.
I’m really glad you took the time to tell us all about your very interesting life.
This piece is not at all arrogant and self-indulgent.
In fact, I’d go as far as to say it’s nearly as good as the excellent and inspiring editorial in HAUS.
Tiresome self-indulgent wittering at our expense (but yes, not as bad as the thankfully absent self-indulgence, Destructors). What a waste of a page, and what a waste of the Nouse budget.
what an idiot. All that needs to be said
ROFL.
(@ torrent of abuse which the comments have unleashed. the article in itself is fairly witty, but quote on quote celebrity is a terrible thing, I think these people are trying to say that you should stick to News.)
zzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Just plain boring.
Both the article itself, and the reactions to it, are hilarious!
Foy- get a grip. you might have got away with this boring article if you had plastered a massive full body picture of yourself in the middle of it.
Why don’t you try to respect some traditions of student media? Nouse is meant to be about the boring machinations of the Uni, not the Henry James Foy Show.
Also, i don’t really see the point inyour rebranding of bad taste. Was it purely to leave your own legacy at York or did you kind of like shitting on the previous editors and the people who’d actually had the original idea?
I think it was the upturned shirt collar that got me.
you missed the bit about the monkey nipples.
My life has taken on such new meaning after having read this column. What inspired you? This is possibly the finest piece of literature in the english language….
In Foy’s words…’Seriously, tell somebody who cares.’
I thought the picture was supposed to be a joke. It was a classic ‘catalogue man’ pose, from the clothes to the collar up to the look-into-the-distance looking. Maybe next time he will be modelling a suit and pointing to his cufflinks. So anyway, although I detected some ego, I also wondered if it was tongue-in-cheek.
Also, I didn’t see any Destructors this edition, which I was very, very happy about, because it is shite.