Saving money, but still drinking

Counting the pennies to make them last? Luke Terry talks you through the art of minesweeping.

As many students do, I’ve recently noticed that money has become tight. And even after searching every hole I could find in my clothes and body, I only found a measly couple of quid.

This could buy me a bottle of White Strike, but what am I going to consume every other day of the week? Hang on, White Strike is only one thing. What am I going to do for the other two meals of every day?

As I saw it, I had three options:

1. Set up an elaborate scam on campus
2. Do an honest day’s work
3. Do something drastic


1. Nick Clegg has that covered
2. Yeah right
3. I guess this is my only option

I’m a borderline alcoholic and I’m not about to let a lack of money stop me crossing that sacred boundary. This is why I’ve resorted to bending over, closing my eyes and spending the night drinking other people’s fluids.

No, I’m not a rent boy. I’ve just started minesweeping.

Minesweeping… No longer safe for work.

For the uninitiated, minesweeping is all about finding abandoned drinks in clubs and making use of them (read: drinking them). Giving them a loving home, so to speak, even if that loving home does try to swallow them whole in a desperate mission to remove its own doubts.

Bonus ‘Roosters Round’ if you avoid mixing!

As you can imagine, this game/religion/calling has its ups and downs. It gets you REALLY drunk. But it’s cheap. And that’s the objective.

Since the only students who take cabs to clubs from The Vale are fat people who consider movement an abuse of their human rights and flash-the-cash Tories from Mason, the only cost a minesweeper will incur on a night out is club entry.

I went into Snobs one night planning only to take almost empty drinks that had been abandoned. By the time I went home, I’d managed to take an entire round of full beers while they were being paid for. A Full House. That’s right, I’m naming minesweeping methods.

Then there’s the Robin Hood, a.k.a. stealing a drink from someone very drunk and giving it to someone horrifically sober.

And don’t forget the Reverse Jesus: finding someone’s wine and replacing it with a cup of water.

Some label it “theft,” some “stealing,” others shout, “Give me back my fucking drink, you fucking fucker of a fuck.” But not me.

For added danger, close your eyes.

When minesweeping, you need to beware of what you sweep – and I don’t just mean accidentally taking the liquid pig shit they call Fosters. I mean worse stuff. Yes, there are things worse than Fosters. I didn’t think so either until I mineswepted something horrific. Something dreadful. Something that made me wish I had just become a rent boy.

But you’ll have to wait for next week for that story.