We all love the summer term. We can sit outside cloudbathing, consume cheap beer by the crate load and, once exams are finished, tell ourselves we’ve worked *extremely* hard and deserve a good three weeks of solid partying. But this year there are a few things that, in the name of public interest (like all the dross in these columns) I would like to offer my advice on.
Avoid the ‘Latin Quarter’.
Besides, err, rank homophobia, I have a second reason not to visit York’s Swinegate cocktail bars: Bora Bora and its neighbours are about as classy as a gyrating Miley Cyrus in black nipple tape. They look like they ought to be frequented by lobster-pink lager louts, the kind of clichéd ‘Brits abroad’ in Reebok Classics who refuse to speak anything but slow, loud English. The décor in Bar Esperanza resembles that of a Croatian pole-dancing club. When friends dragged me there this week they were, for some reason, showing underwear fashion shows on the screens. I was left supping a lychee cocktail that tasted like Glade air freshener.
Bearing in mind the competition, Evil Eye’s queues and high prices are a small price to pay.
Don’t be the quad dick.
The summer is here, the geese are laying and that guy who’s been wearing a wife beater since January is sitting cross-legged on the quad strumming his guitar. The quad dick, equipped with his pubic underarm hair, has arrived.
Next week he’ll be bringing a goose into your kitchen – for the “lolz” – but will make his swift escape as it sh*ts all over the floor. Later in the week you will find him, now bored of smoking weed and strumming Mumford & Sons late into the night, jumping ship to the library. He will join the crowd of girls talking loudly about their workloads and exams (“Oh my god, I’ve done no revision”) at the bottom of the JB Morrell stairs, unaware of there being about 200 ‘great minds at work’ within earshot. Come Big D he’ll be jumping in the lake, braving the 483 different diseases gestating in its depths. Your charitable nature will be tested as you try not to wish every one of them upon him.
Beware the Hoo-Hah Henrys.
Summer brings out all number of unwelcome fashion trends, from skin-tight denim shorts to excessive nudity. Since life for many of us revolves around the library, I thought I’d draw attention to its most conspicuous inhabitant: the Hooray Henrys of York. Summer’s arrived and the gilets are off, replaced by Tortoise-shell Wayfarers and boat shoes – a look topped off with ‘I just woke up like this hair’ (actually took them about an hour). The Hooray Henry is more likely to talk about work than work, and can be found on uni bridge smoking and posing.
You know who you are.
Don’t consciously uncouple.
Chris Martin and Gwyneth Paltrow may claim to be pioneering “conscious uncoupling”, but when you think about it, students have been doing it for years.
The prospect of three months away from the boy/girl while they build orphanages (or their CV) is enough to leave anyone running for the hills. As for graduates, they know that London will provide a higher class of other half to match with – sorry, York.
And so the process, which most couples have known to be coming since about January, of ditching your other half must soon begin. You’ll be stuck between wanting to spend every last moment together and pursuing the gentle break-up.
My advice is to nurse your failing relationship through exams to avoid undue stress, and climb aboard the Gold Rush afterwards. No-one wants the tearful farewell at the train station, and a little dose of bitterness and some awkward Willow glances will add a nice dollop of spice to your final two weeks.