Studying English left me completely disillusioned

King Lear is a depressing play – no two ways about it. Othello is pretty dark. So for that matter is Macbeth and we haven’t even started on the woes of reading Hamlet yet.

Motiveless malignity, the lack of authentic self-identity, the absence of justice, Oedipus/Electra complexes: these are just a selection of the concerns English students have to grapple with on a daily basis. Throw in a six and a half hour per week time-table (where little work is required), an awful lot of thinking time, lager on tap in halls and access to YouTube and you’ve got all the necessary ingredients for a messy fresher Raoul Moat-esque meltdown.

I can’t even take a shit without questioning the point of everything

Picture the scene. You’re in bed at 4pm. You’ve taken the death of Cordelia in Lear particularly badly, M.I.A’s postmodern banthem “Paper Planes” is playing on a loop in the background. An email flashes up from the old man – a reminder to look for law/advertising internships as you prepare to join the corporate gravy train in the pursuit of wonga. The cash registers which form the backing chorus to ‘Paper Planes’ echo eerily with the mood.

Later at dinner, you begin to notice the similarities between yourself and Shakespearean arch-villain Iago (let’s be honest – we’ve all plotted the death of at least one mate’s bird). You look around: you’re surrounded by automatons intent on chatting about “whether you wanna go Lounge?” or whether the phrase “damp squib” is in fact “damp squid”.

What are the implications of this? What is a squib? Amid further interrogation of whether you want to go to Lounge, you quip intelligently and very wittily: “To be in Lounge or not to be in Lounge, that is the question”. Nobody laughs or even acknowledges your comedic dexterity. You feel like a right Malvolio. A 24-carat, Grade A fun-sponge, excluded from all the jolly japes and banter.

After six pints of piss-water lager in the halls bar to numb the fatiguing boredom of doing fuck all for eight hours for the fourth day in a row, the bus to Lounge to look out for some tasty “strumpets” seems a splendid plan.

Five minutes after entry, an anagnorisis of epic proportions occurs. It’s a Thursday. PamPam Thursday. The only sorry fuckers in Lounge are the people who were refused entry to Pams or tanked up second years out with their housemates.

Pondering the lack of eligible women, you ponder “where are the Desdemonas of yesteryear?” before one lad tries to mug you off by stumbling into you and not apologising. The bouncers turf you out, mistaking you as the aggressor. You implore the bouncer to “See better, Lear!” but he fails to get the reference, kneeing you instead swiftly in the bollocks.

The morning after, feeling distinctly like one of the Unsullied out of Game of Thrones due to your effective castration at the hands of Terry outside Lounge, you quarry last night’s contact lenses out of your bloodshot eyes. You quickly check any feelings of regret or self-pity; these emotions pale into insignificance when compared to Gloucester’s folly in King Lear.

Oasis’ anthem “Live Forever” reverberates around the room. Self-indulgently, you imagine your life as a biopic, as you come to the final scene. Perched on top of Clifton Suspension Bridge, the Gallagher brothers serenading you from inside your own tiny mind, you, like Hamlet, decide against a premature exit from the mortal coil of existence. After all, you’ve got an essay in for next Tuesday. Life is bleak.