Robsession II: A President’s Diary

Beloved UBU President Rob ‘Griffah’ Griffiths’ daily diary, as imagined by Will Lloyd.

5:40 A.M.

I can only sleep for twenty sweaty minutes at a time. My dreams are frequent: my grandfather attends a UBU salsa class, zombies stuck in quicksand, I wheel a broken microwave around the downs, I have dinner with an actual Webster’s dictionary and it turns out to be a knowing and erudite dining companion, nuclear war, I pass a bill ensuring that every male student in Bristol is forced to get my haircut.

I write that one down because it’s a good idea.

6:45 A.M.

Breakfast is decaffeinated peach tea accompanied by gluten-free rice bread, smeared with Japanese quince butter. The latter costs me £50 to import into the UK.

7:25 A.M.

I am the mountain.

8:30 A.M.

Before I leave work I make sure to check under my bed and in my cupboards for tabloid hacks because you can never be too careful right?

10:00 A.M.

My secretary Danielle, who is in love with me, is staring at me in the office. Has she noticed my tan? Or all my flossing? Or the work I put into skin care, or how tight my abs are? I want her to notice. I flex my steely bicep under my white M&S Blue Harbour shirt so much that it almost bursts open.

11:45 A.M.

Tom Flynn, Vice President for Education (or something), is having another one of his fax frenzies. He is only communicating via fax. My desk is less than ten meters away from his.

12:30 P.M.

Do I follow too many people on twitter? Will Lloyd (who?) shared a link to ‘my’ diary and it came up on my feed earlier. Not sure what to make of it.

Thanks, I guess.

2:50 P.M.

No word from Webster’s Dictionaries. It has been over a week. I have sent 34 emails to them in that period.

3:15 P.M.

A girl is standing near my charity donut stall. She asks why there isn’t a bar on campus. I roar back that IT DOESN’T MATTER THAT THERE IS NO BAR BECAUSE THE UNION DOES SO MUCH OTHER GOOD WORK – LIKE OUR LETTING AGENCY, OUR MEAT FREE MONDAYS, OUR COOL RED JACKETS, AND THE FACT I HAVE A FUCKING LOUDSPEAKER.

I don’t say this, obviously. I go red, sweat slightly and say that there is more to a student union’s work than simply running a boorish bar. Has she ever tried one of our salsa classes for instance?

She says she hasn’t. For some reason I have an image of my grandfather dancing a salsa.

4:40 P.M.

Why is it so cool to hate Coldplay? This thought plagues me for some time.

7.30 P.M.

Mum calls and we have a nice chat. She asks if I have a girlfriend but I politely decline to give her an answer. I ask her what she thought of The One Show tonight. She enjoyed it very much.

9:51 P.M.

Bristol at night. Distant caterwauling of foxes and cats. A vagrant joylessly sups a glass of Exhibition cider. Two lads walk past, blacked up, confusingly dressed as Mario and Luigi, heading towards Lizard Lounge. Disgust washes over me in an awesome wave. A white van passes, music booming and I can hear it.

It’s ‘Blurred Lines’ and the lyric ‘you the hottest bitch in this place’ drifts up to me.

My work is not yet done.