Brace yourself, the freshers are coming: A-levels results night at Pryzm

Meet the bright minds descending on your university this September

We were all freshers once, scampering around whichever uni town in the arse end of nowhere we’d managed to scrape the grades to get into.

This doesn’t negate the fact that after your first year of university, it’s perfectly acceptable to treat freshers with the same loathful disdain given to you when you were still living in halls.

But let’s regard the new freshers a little more closely before we make that decision. What do they look like? What makes them tick? Are we really so different to them after all?

We headed down to Pryzm in Kingston on results night to get loose with next year’s first years.

The ‘pre-lash’

How convenient that there is a ‘spoons directly opposite Pryzm – it was there that the boozing commenced. Pints were chopped, pitchers were bought, not as sharers, but as a drink with one straw, and Jägerbombs were knocked back and subsequently spilled onto the increasingly sticky floor.

The night was just picking up momentum. Although for some it was starting to slow down a tad, as two girls pushed me out of the way as I made for a toilet cubicle. A leap onto the floor and a projectile vomit later, she was looking like she might not make it into the club. Although her best friend held her hair back like a pro.

This was perhaps a warm-up for uni life as Charlie, pictured above (far left), said “I’m to be all over that sauce” with regards to his alcohol consumption at university.

When asked what they thought university would be like, the incoming freshers provided a variety of responses, “wild”, “fucking sick” and “crawling with minge”. Amazing.

The queue

The boys kitted out in enough clobber that Jack & Jones will be in business for many years to come, and the girls drinking vodka that they stole from their parents out of a crumpled Vittel bottle. We had spent the night trying to talk to as many of these literal new kids on the block to try and understand their world, but they were too set on finally going to a club for the first time.

The distinction between those who were out celebrating or drowning their sorrows was quite obvious. At least tonight when Timmy gets caught with three E’s in his pocket, we’re talking about his A-levels – a life sentence of not living up to his parents expectations, rather than behind bars.

The bouncers

A mixed bunch, it had to be said, as is often the way with nightclub bouncers. We noticed that many of our teenage compatriots were being breathalysed, so we asked the security staff if we could have a go. We were swiftly encouraged to move away from the area.

When asked about what he had been drinking and hence why he had been breathalysed and kicked out, tipsy youth Sam told us “it’s fucking beer mate”

Some were much more friendly, and allowed us to move up and down the queue interviewing the fresh meat, allowing them to make complete tits of themselves.

The vomit

Young people plus alcohol has always equalled vomit. The sky is blue, the grass is green. Any more questions?

Regurgitated VK juice and the shepherd’s pie mum made for dinner ran down off the pavement into the drains. We recoiled in disgust as we passed by a girl splayed out on the ground, her male friend unwittingly holding her hair up as she retched up something horrid. Surely we didn’t used to be like this? A question most likely better left unanswered

Many revellers being escorted off the premises either by friends or security carried with them a transparent plastic bowl, showing that even in Brexit Britain, compassionate innovation can still flourish.

The end of the night

The clientele emerged from the Ark-esque Pryzm in two by two from about 1:30am onwards. Girls walking along in heels like if you put Bambi in an ice rink, boys still huffing along like buffalo, dismayed at another night of failing to attract the opposite sex.

Had he known, Noah would have thought “fuck this” and saved us the whole hassle of civilisation, progress and life in general. He’d have let us all rest easy in our watery graves.

The tipsy young things were now quite hungry after running around a club for a few hours so we followed them into a chicken shop for a late night snack. Walking out with a couple of anaemic pieces of chicken, ready for home while the fresh batch of liver-wreckers continued into the exceedingly early hours, someone asked the man on the till whether his dilapidated chicken shop accepted Apple Pay.

Ah, the Snapchat generation. Why can’t we have an app which lets them go clubbing virtually, so everyone else can get on with enjoying their night out?