Wolfson Hall: Catered accommodation for mugs

It’s just terrible

glasgow university Wolfson Hall Worst Hall

Wolfson is the worst set of halls at Glasgow.

Sitting on the edge of the city like some Scottish Colditz, there really is no escape from this dump. If Murano has a reputation of partying and Queen Margaret of luxury, Wolfson weighs in as the most soul destroying.

Location

This place is so far out even the cabbies respond with a quizzical “where thae fuck is tha..” before gleefully realising they’re going to hit double figures with that fare. You actually leave the city boundaries to get to the nearest shop.

Don’t like the night out? Too bad. Either you wait for everyone else to leave or face a 12 pound solo cab ride. For the more adventurous there’s always an hour long walk back from town.

Sometimes you spot someone you once stood next to in the dinner queue and now sees 4am as a prime time to forge friendships.

Casual stroll to walk off the drinking

Transport

At around 9:45 the final SRC bus arrives and if you haven’t been waiting there since 9:15 the chances of getting on have dropped to about zero.

There’s always the sneaky option of standing outside instead of in reception if you don’t mind being stared out at every meal by the person you’ve just mugged off by taking their seat.

Cycling was an option but the bike shed was the equivalent of a pick n mix at Woolworths for any scumbags in the area.

Food

Wolfson prides itself on a very special menu of fried and/or baked potatoes.

University diet in a non-catered accommodation isn’t very varied anyway but somehow the cooks at Wolfson have reduced it even further by following the age old advice that a balanced diet is for pussies.

Some dude also insisted on playing the piano at meal times. What was a nice touch to dinner quickly fell through.

The Pirates of the Caribbean theme loses its novelty round about the 17th rendition. No doubt Wolfson’s Liberace will find fame off the back of themed song recitals.

They might look like smiles, but they’re just grimaces at the thought of a Christmas baked potato

People

Wolfson’s residents consisted of international students, vets or those who must have forgotten to apply to halls and lost out badly.

Cliques formed, smothering social interaction; even trying to sit at a different dinner table led to odd stares.

The worst offenders for this were the vets.

Caught out individually these guys are alright but in groups of more than four they form some sort of hive mind with an aversion to anyone who didn’t fancy sticking a thermometer up an animal’s asshole for a living.

There are vet socials, vet sports, vet everything; how do they even get on so well by just being on the same course? Possibly bonding over all the ket they’ll be able to have once qualified.

Some will go to any lengths to escape the constraints of Wolfson Halls

There was also that group of people who sit in the common room eyeballing anyone who walks in with the same welcome gaze UKIP reserves for those not from the UK.

Fuck off; it’s a common room not your private booth.

Amenities Parties

People made invite only Facebook groups for these school disco parties despite the fact everyone could hear it from their windows and take the 30 second walk to join in.

A night here felt like someone had set up speakers in your Nan’s house.

The key to amenities must have also come with the condition that only Gold Digger and Chelsea Dagger are played, nothing like the same two songs before the commute into town for a night out.

After two months I’d had enough and managed to transfer to a new accommodation.

But those left behind have never really recovered.