People you will meet in the Bunker smoking area
Fools and deplorables
Ah Bunker, (or should I say Analogue).
The sweaty, poorly lit cellar in which the denizens of Bristol University congregate every Monday to gyrate in a mal-coordinated fashion to Top 40, in the hope of getting gazeboed off a couple of cheap Jagerbombs with the boys, or having an unfulfilling fumble around in the toilets.
Although its almost always a letdown, there’s something about “Bunkah Mundaze” being shouted hoarsely outside the bus stop that elicits some kind of primal reaction in the legs of every student, and drags them out to the triangle each week, oblivious to the pleas of their brain.
With levels of heat on the dancefloor that makes you think that the Wicker Man probably had it easier, you’re guaranteed to be spending at least 80% of your time during the night in the smoking area.
Here, you are guaranteed to meet at least a few of these types of morally deplorable individuals:
The “What Do You Think of The Course Then Mate?”
You’ve seen this person a couple of times in the lecture theatre.
You don’t know their name, but they greet you with bug eyed smiles each time you sit next to them, and sidle up to you, muttering a stream of incoherent asides and jokes that essentially turns them into a radiator, heating up the air next to you for the entirety of the lecture.
Now in the smoking area, they are your sensei. They don’t give a shit about your opinion. They don’t care about small talk. You are here to hear their academic journey thus far.
Inevitably, it will start off with talk of how great their GCSEs went before moving on to “connections” and internships. They’ve done so many internships. So many.
They will smell. Bad. And you will want to leave, but you can’t stop that elastic jaw of theirs from moving, so you grind your teeth and hug your knees, rocking slowly as they talk about aerospace engineering until the sanity slowly slips out of your soul.
From his perch on the raised bit by the side of the smoking area, his arm will slither round the shoulders of the nearest group of girls like a tentacle from a Hokusai painting.
Signet ring gleaming, cheeks rosy, squint eyed from his tequilas, his pride and ignorance like a visor. A rousing “Alright ladies” begins his speech as he will go on about “the rugger on the weekend” or bemoaning Mourinho’s decision to drop “Wazza, who is a fucking sound bloke”.
He will pretend not to notice as the girls slowly shrink away from him like a mandy affected penis and begin shuffling towards the toilets, shaking their heads.
He will spend periods between invading circles of girls, assuring you that he is a “pussy magnet”, and informing anyone within earshot that he has a girlfriend back home “but you gotta do what you gotta do”.
The “Only When I’m Drunk” Smoker
Easily spotted by the drooped shoulders, tentative shuffle forwards and the narrowed eyes, scouring the back bench for a glimpse of that orange glow. This glow is their sun.
Their eyes will widen and over they will come. They will tell you that they “only smoke when I’m pissed mate” and accompany this with a fake laugh.
They can’t roll, and you will be left forced to roll a pathetic looking one for them with your shaking, vodka mixer drenched fingers. The first drag will be accompanied with a disgusting splutter as loud as the exhaust of your third hand 1994 Skoda, and the equivalent of the smoke from the eruption of Mount Vesuvius will emerge from their mouth.
Five minutes of awkward small talk later, they will silently leave you, prowling the vicinity for their next victim.
The Professional Drink Spiller
A man who exists solely to send the very reason for your presence tumbling into the oblivion of the cracks between the rotting wooden floor.
He will slur an apology in the vague direction of your ear, and raise up his palm like he’s fucking Domitian giving a conquered gladiator the thumbs up, before slipping into the pulsing throng inside.
You will never see him again.
This man has no common look or image. He could be anyone.
The ”You’re So Nice, I Love You” Girl
Raccoon eyes, Topshop leather jacket and a dirty fag end in hand, she will stumble over to you screaming whatever she thinks your name is.
You lent her a Bic in a seminar once and you can count on your fingers the number of times you’ve spoken, but her double voddy cranberry saturated eyes have superimposed Ryan Gosling’s face on yours.
Resting her chin on your shoulder like you’re a human pillow, she will pour out the entire contents of your heart all over you. In the midst of this will be some disturbing anecdote which will scar you for the rest of the night, and leave you considering whether you should email her the number for a helpline tomorrow morning.
She will loudly erupt into a flood of tears when you desperately try to suggest that a water and not fucking you or Johnny to make Hugo jealous will help her out.
When you next see her friends, they will hiss at you, and for six months everyone will think you banged her in the toilets. One to avoid.
The “Gap Yah”-ist
Latching onto some hapless, lonely looking fresher who’s mates disappeared long ago, they will begin recounting the “best year of their life”.
No they didn’t go to Thailand like everyone else, they will tell you. They will say that they went to “help out some kids”, always with vague enough phrasing to make you question whether they really went to assist at an orphanage or they started a paedophile ring.
They will assure you that it was “eye opening” and really helped them “get down to earth”, explaining how they eschew the poison of modern technology whilst pinging off a message to the group chat on their iPhone 7.
If they are female, note the presence of the baggy trousers with the little elephants embroidered on to reinforce how cultured she is. If they are male, note the slightly too long hair and scruff, or if they’re a real deplorable arsehole, white man dreads.