First year is the best year of your life
‘Mate, it’s first year…’
After working our socks off to get to uni, it often feels like first year leaves us with an empty feeling. We ask ‘what now?’ as we contemplate a year like no other; a year with no structure based on work that doesn’t count.
Without the pressure of waking up for rollcalls and compulsory lessons, it seems near impossible to summon the strength needed to get out of bed. You wonder how on earth you made it to school before 8.30, when you’ve missed half your 9ams (and 10ams) this year. When did getting up become such a struggle?
As your alarm exacerbates your hangover, you wonder if it’s really worth it. You realise missing this lecture will result in, wait for it, absolutely nothing. It’s 50 minutes of words which go in one ear and out the other, while you sip water slowly and pray for it to be all over. Skipping a lesson at school seemed inconceivable, but here it’s almost the norm – some people have gone to more toga parties than lectures.
The lack of purpose sets us into a sort of lethargic slumber. Digesting spoon-fed material at A level and being ready to chunder it out in the exam was our goal for getting into uni.
Interaction with the teachers and, for some, housemasters, checking you’re actually doing something with your education meant you had to get your shit done.
Parents asking how your revision for mocks is going meant you swapped Youtube for a textbook, just to make them shut up. Here you’re free to watch cat videos all day, with no-one checking in on you, and it’s dangerous.
Escaping school means no more restricted wifi. With this new found freedom we burn away the days on Snapchat, Youtube and Neflix (mainly without the ‘chill’). We’re delighted to find Pornhub unblocked and tend to abuse what still seems to be a fresh revelation; don’t even deny it.
The apocalyptic drinking gives us an excuse to stay in bed, curled up in a ball, debating whether we’re in a state to get up, but never really worrying about whether we should get up to do work. “Oh but mate it’s just ‘formative, so chill out” is a gentle reminder that your work doesn’t mean shit.
“Fuck it, it’s first year” is heard all around campus, and after a few missed seminars, your tutor forgets you exist. Trust me, it happens.
You open a Snapchat describing the game plan for tonight’s pres and you’re free to give up on the reading you semi-attempted.
In a year about making friends, it’s always worth choosing the pub over the library.