Why school is better than uni
Your school days were better and you know it.
I can’t be the only one who thinks this. Maybe you never admit it to yourself or the vacuous tossers you hang around with but the salad days of school are a cherished memory that most of us would return to if we could.
You’re not the best at anything.
If you’re at a uni that’s even half-way respectable, it’s a pretty good indication that you either lied in your personal statement or were a cocky little nerd at school. Maybe you’re a little column A, a little column B. Point is, nothing can prepare a straight A student for the shock of getting a 2.2 in return for a ball busting essay. It hurts.
This gut wrenching horror isn’t just reserved for the academic realm. Try making a university sports team – you won’t. No-one cares if you kept 7 clean sheets in a row to storm to victory as part of the best primary school football team in Maidstone, Kent. At uni that counts for nothing. NOTHING!
You’re not cute anymore.
Society hates you, you oversleeping, kebab gobbling, Loose Women watching waster. No hard working human being wants to show any support for your new found life of debauchery. If in doubt, ask an elderly relative or alternatively work it out from the fact that 90% of them stopped bunging you a tenner at Christmas when you made the switch from A level to uni.
Look at your flabby arse! It’s a fucking disgrace. The freshers 15 is no myth. By third year most of you will have accomplished a weight gain that makes Claire from Steps’ cheesecake fuelled transformation look positively amateur. If you haven’t had that Special K advert ‘jeans don’t fit’ moment yet, don’t worry – it’s coming. 5,6,7, plate.
Remember coming home from school to a fridge more stocked than an OXO factory (badum tschhhhh)? Those days are gone. By the time you’ve paid for enough central heating to avoid hypothermia you’ll be lucky if you have enough student loan left to fund a bowl of gruel. Cheap as chips? Fuck off David Dickinson, before a student finance payment fried spuds are tantamount to caviar.
You can’t call a spade a spade.
Or a c*nt a c*nt for that matter. You’re looking for jobs now. It doesn’t matter if you have utter contempt for the perma-tanned, pinstriped cock you share a glass of awful wine with at a careers event – he could be your boss next year. Get your nose up his arse or wave bye bye to your career prospects, you corporate sell-out.