FRESHERS: The inevitable reality of your first term at Bristol Uni
Yes, it’ll happen to you too
Bristol is near on synonymous with flares. You swore you wouldn’t. You’re a strong, independent, straight-leg inclined (wo)man who won’t fall victim to such outrageous stereotype. Next thing you know you’re strutting down Woodland Road, puffer jacket in hand, flares swinging over your oh so fresh white Nike trainers. “Look at me,” you’ll giggle to your skinny-jeaned home friends, “I’m so Bristol.”
Ah the 9am. You, of course, have assured yourself you will not be missing lectures. After all, this is what you are paying your £9,000 for. Nevertheless, within a week you’re gathered around your hall bar, heads shaking as you lament the university’s sheer audacity of scheduling classes at such a time. You’ll wonder how you survived your fifteen years of schooling as you begin another season of Friends at a very reasonable two AM in the morning.
Don’t deny it, you fell for it too. Having heard countless stories from your older siblings’ friends about the wild, raunchy escapes of Freshers’ Week. You dutifully packed your protection, eager to experience your own sexual adventure in this hormonal hotspot. However, seven days later dust has begun to fall upon the box of Durex, and sadly the most action you’ve got is when someone fell onto your lap as the U1 rounded a tight corner. You’ll sit alone, horny and disappointed, wondering whether Eduroam will ban you for watching Pornhub. (It will.)
You’ve been practising your sidestepping in the mirror ever since UCAS confirmed your acceptance, eager to perfect Bristol’s staple piece move. However, Freshers’ Week nights at Gravity and Lola’s will surprise you with their conventionality, leading you across the bridge to Motion. Here you’ll remain until 12:30, awkwardly nodding, then inwardly sigh with relief as someone suggests an Uber back to halls. The following day’s Instagram caption will feature an artist’s name you didn’t stay long enough to see – and you’ll have to Google the spelling.
The mould behind your bed doesn’t quite fit your minimalist-chic plans, however you compensate for this with a tactful arrangement of fairy lights, and perhaps an indoor plant. A generous neighbour counteracts the repetitive squeak of a mattress with pumping bass music, whilst conversation outside the window ensures you routinely wake to mediocre gossip. Luckily, by Christmas you’ll be accustomed to the corridor’s peculiar smells, and the confounding silence of your home bedroom will leave you itching to get back to Bristol.
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