My term at Bridge: the journey so far

I am the lone wolf

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0th Week

Thursday

The wails of hapless historians trying to decide between learning the 2013 or 2014 paper all around me as I don my outfit for the night. But it’s fine. This is my life now.

I head out full of enthusiasm for my task, accompanied by a motley crew of battle-hardened second years and finalists. In terms of my outfit for the night, I lead with my strong suit. I am Corduroyman. I wear nothing that is not corduroy. I didn’t manage to track down any corduroy pants or socks… Not a problem for Corduroyman.

As we pass Nandos, it becomes obvious that something is catastrophically wrong. When we approach the silent smoking area my entire world crumbles, and I let out a bellowing wail like a rutting stag glistening in the evening dew, wearing lots of beige corduroy. “Yeah mate it’s closed.  Let’s go Roppongi?””Yeah nice.”

Still counts.

Spot the corduroy beret

First week

Thursday

Given the unmitigated catastrophe that was the previous Thursday, and the fact that the students of Oxford Brooks had yet to return to their hallowed halls, I presumed that MNB would not be opening its doors to her faithful patrons until the following Monday. I was incorrect, but it’s fine, I only have 17 to go.

I arrive after an a cappella crewdate, which was rowdy as fuck. We have queue jump tickets, valid until 11, and I make sure to arrive gracefully and in style, as befits the occasion of my inaugural bridge – sprinting down Park End Street at 10.59pm with a not insignificant proportion of Out of the Blue with some hero wailing out the theme music to Sir Digby Chicken Ceaser. The queue jump only takes half an hour and then I’m in, breathing in Anuba’s sweet musk.

The evening is unremarkable – I try to spice things up and agree to stage a screamed break up with my friend in the smoking area. I had visions of a viral video – “drunk vigilante tries to intervene as crazy boyfriend threatens to ‘execute your fucking guineapig’, falls over.”

It was tragic – my creatively disposed friend didn’t quite grasp the premise, and instead of covertly filming from a safe distance, went full cameraman and circled us, flash on, from a range of dynamic angles, so we looked like a pair of shit actors failing miserably to make some gritty coming of age film. Also no one cared.

Second week 

Monday

No one really wants to go, because it is Monday Night Bridge, so I prepare to head out on my own. Before I leave, Lucy off of the room opposite me hands me a hat with a wolf face on it – “you are the lone wolf”, she says. I am the lone wolf.

I end up heading out with a group of boozed freshers, celebrating some girl’s birthday. On the way I did consider trying to learn some lines from The Hangover, so I can go around the smoking area spouting Alan quotes, but then realise it’s a bit of an effort and won’t be that funny.

I arrive, I haven’t had a single drink. This is about survival now. I try to engage some of the annihilated freshers in conversation, but after a while the looks of pain on their faces as they try to turn their thoughts into some form of recognisable language is too much, and I give up.

I stand in the corner, dancing on my own with the wolf hat on. After a while someone comes up to me and asks what I am doing. “I am the lone wolf”, I reply. Game over. My night is complete. I check my watch. My 35 minutes are up. I go home.

Thursday

Unremarkable. I wake up in the morning and look to see if I’d written any interesting notes about the night before. “Thought it would be funny to see how many guys’ elbows I could lick while they are snogging. Managed three and then forgot. Not good. So much more to give. Plan better.”

Third week

Monday

It’s already happened. I’m going to The Bridge Bar and Club on my own. It’s ten past eleven and I’ve just finished the dress rehearsal for a play. I haven’t seen snow like this for years. Some bastard tourist is taking photos of the snow with her iPhone gloves. I’m cold as fuck and I’m going to Bridge on my own.

Intrepid journalism

I get in and wander around in my coat and rucksack for a while. This is brutally tragic. After a while I find a friend from Brookes who takes pity and scoops me up. In fairness to her she tried her best, but her insistence on introducing me as “This is Tom, he goes to Oxford” completely obliterated any chances I may or may not have had of surviving the social vortex that is the MNB smoking area. She may as well have said “This is Tom, he is horribly racist and blames global warming on women bishops and gay marriage”, for all the good it did me. I just couldn’t make it past the 15-30 second phase of conversation. I admitted defeat fairly swiftly and walked home behind a group of charming young Brookes students, who were in very good voice.

Thursday

This week I pretend I play sport and arrive from a crewdate once more. While I’m on the subject, it was sad to see that crewdates continue in their downward spiral towards stifling levels of political correctness.

Two interesting things happen on the night itself. The first is that I overhear two people discussing whether or not Marie Le Pen would make it into the VIP area. That was nice. The second is that I had a conversation with my friend Dom. Well, I thought we were friends, but it turns out there is a side to Dom’s personality that I never could have anticipated – Dom, avid smoker and ear piercing owner that he is, has represented Great Britain at chess.

Basically, long story short, THIS THURSDAY (fifth week), Dom will be drinking two bottles of wine and then taking on the combined intellect of the Bridge smoking area at the game of chess.

So far, it’s going pretty disastrously. I need to go way more and do way more interesting stuff.