Flying Sober

I am a rare breed of student. I, Elizabeth Nash, (drumroll please) do not drink.

The reasons are endless, and I won’t bore you by cataloguing them. Safe to say it’s just better for everyone on earth if I avoid the sauce. So, like all good unusual species (big up and shout out to my man David Attenborough), I have had to learn to adapt.

You can keep your rum – but pass the redbull

You may think it difficult to take on Tequila sober, or brave Fruity with naught but cranberry juice coursing through your veins – let alone the sporty orgy that is Bed on a Wednesday. My friends, you’d be wrong. Now, do not misunderstand me; I am not here evangelising about the benefits of sober nights. I would definitely be boozing if I could, oh yes I would. BUT there is some fun to be had in being the only one on their tits, as opposed to off them.

Take Fruity. One particular occasion, I was dutty wine-ing with the best of them in Mine, soothed by Gyptian and his empty promises of ‘Hold Yuh’. But whilst I was there, pon de floor, minding my own business, WHAT DID I SEE? A very cross-eyed male approaching me, lust in his eyes and VK all down his front.

‘Good evening, fine Sir. And what can I assist you with?’ I politely enquired.

Talking obviously wasn’t on the agenda, for I suddenly found myself with a mouthful of beery breath and fresher tongue. I endured it for approximately 8 seconds. Gently extricating myself from his tentacly embrace, I was able to fool him simply by quickly pirouetting out of sight. i.e. behind him.

Bamboozled, the young man sloped away. Now, had I been lashing (weeeeyyyyyy woof woof) there is a medium to strong chance that I would have found myself next to that rotter on Saturday morning, with my contacts embedded into my pupils and the contents of my handbag scattered to the four winds in Union Square. Luckily, I dodged a bullet that time.

Another joy is seeing what your errant friends get up to on an evening. I won’t name and shame, but a number of guys and girls have found themselves in that same position and have opted to travel home with these young Jezebels/Casanovas. I’ve seen pole-dances worthy of employment in Red Leopard, feats of gymnastic dancing that would shame Tweddle, extortionate amounts of money spent (especially in Bed – we’re talking £80 rounds). I’ve witnessed amateur parkour leading to near-death injuries, and illicit liaisons between ‘just friends’ in romantic environments like Walkabout.

Running on good old fashioned F-U-N

One thing I will say in defence of getting twatted is that it almost always makes for a good story. Am I very envious of the people with hysterical tales of waking up in hotel lobbies, wearing a tramp’s shoes and carrying a mysterious Sainsbury’s bag full of reduced fat mozzarella? Absolutely. Do I wish I could contribute with a yarn about doing Shirley Bassey’s ‘Goldfingah’  in OK-Karaoke for a crowd of appreciative international students? Oh yessir, yessir I do. But believe me when I say, when it comes to this rabid senorita, it’s just a far better idea that I go sober. And I shall leave it at that.