It’s The End, so it seems! And The End isn’t just a weird campaign by YUSUBars to convince us all to buy pints in Courtyard through the use of binary code and Portal quotes. No, The End’s everywhere! Exams have ended. Group projects have ended. Judging by Gold Rush, relationships have ended, and countless third-years are busy writing poetry to the objects of their affections via Facebook – much like Shakespeare, if Shakespeare wanted to have sex with you.
Even this column’s ending! Or this’ll be the last time I write it, anyway, since the Nouse editor used her third wish to give me my freedom (and informed me I’m not allowed to put the column on Swap Shop, “slightly used”). So let’s end by talking about Willow.
Willow, for those who haven’t been, or those who have but had the memories punched out of their head by a fist made of solid Sambuca, is a nightclub in York with the aesthetic of a school disco that’s been left to rot for about five years. It used to be a restaurant but got shut down for health violations. And it’s my favourite club. Obviously.
It’s taught me valuable lessons. For instance, if you order 10 Sambuca shots at once, the bartender will flatly question your life choices, and since he works for Willow that feels a bit like Sepp Blatter telling you you’re being a corrput in a global organisation. But then you have 10 Sambuca shots, so you enter into the alcoholic equivalent of a cage match with Optimus Prime, and you end up white-girl wasted and slurring about the merits of Taylor Swift to a guy dressed like Buzz Lightyear. (Hey, an astronaut’s gonna know about blank space. But I digress).
I learned that you can express your friendship for another human being by yelling S-Club 7 lyrics at them, and a particularly interesting costume party taught me that you can wear a dress and still feel like a man. Another taught me that at least one person in York is attracted to the Cat in the Hat, which is probably the premise of a terrible fan-fiction somewhere.
I’m sure there’s more to learn, on the way to Ama-Willow (where sweet tequila waits for me). But alas, it’s The End! All I can do is look back fondly on these moments, and hope to God that my parents haven’t figured out my writing style when they’re reading this. And in The End, isn’t that all we can hope for? Isn’t it?
Drop mic. Fade to black.