Jamie Ross: The Bitch is Back

I haven’t written anything here for a while. Whilst I’d like to pretend that I’ve been too entrenched in my history dissertation to waste time spouting ill-conceived opinions on The Stand, I usually only get so far in my reading before I begin to question which of Henry VIII’s wives I’d most like to pull. It’s tricky; Catherine Howard is pretty but annoying, Jane Seymour is kind but sickly and Anne Boleyn is intelligent but an eleven-fingered incestuous witch. It is a veritable minefield.

Anyway, I’m back – the bitch is back – and I thought that, since it’s been several months since I last tried to disguise my own shortcomings by criticising those around me, this week I will offload all of my malevolent thoughts from the entire term in one big horrible cathartic turd of an article. Here are the five worst things about semester one, bearing in mind I didn’t attend the Kate Kennedy Club Pantomime.

1. I wasn’t elected BNOC. Somehow, presumably through some diabolical conspiracy, I was not voted as the Big Name on Campus. In fact, I wasn’t even nominated. To rub further salt in the wound, the finalists were of the pastel-betrousered sort that I have dedicated an entire university career to fighting against. I mean, a genuine agglomeration of the four finalists’ names is Tarleton Calder-Heather-Watkins-Pemberton III. Next time, vote for me and I will use my powers to combat them. After all, when has any harm ever come from a man rising to power through the scapegoating of a societal minority?

2. People complaining about their workload. University is literally the easiest phase we will ever encounter in our entire lives. We actually had to show up at school, and full-time employment, by all accounts, sounds horrifying. Apparently they don’t even have time to hitchhike to Prague or take part in pub quidditch. Nevertheless, now that I’m in fourth year my Facebook newsfeed is full of people I have actively attempted to avoid since Freshers’ Week 2009 squealing about how hard their lives are. Whilst it’s terrible that we’re all having a world-class education forced upon us, I preferred it when you were all fixing corrupt African governments with your Facebook statuses. It may well be, of course, that you’re all just trying much harder than me, in which case, congratulations, you win the race to perpetual unemployment.

3.My arm. I am 23. This isn’t old, but in St Andrews it makes me so comparatively ancient that I feel more of an affinity with the castle – a once proud monument slowly crumbing into the wintry sea – than I do with most of you. With the worry of growing old and frail on my mind, I bought some weights, did a bicep curl and my forearm snapped in half. After taking a few seconds to appreciate the delicious irony of that series of events, I screamed in pain and started to cry, then I rushed myself to Ninewells A&E department. A nurse looked at it for a few seconds, declared it was merely sprained and sent me home with a withering information card titled ‘Save A&E for REAL emergencies’. The double humiliation; a self esteem-crushing classic.

4. The NUS Referendum. This little episode seemed especially pointless, even as far as student politics goes, but the irritability level of the campaigns remained high as always. I genuinely believe that anyone who had the energy to muster up an opinion about it must eat too much. It seemed to be a choice between maintaining the Union budget or having ASOS discounts, but argued with the ferocity of pro or anti-apartheid. I noticed the SABBs didn’t side with either argument, apparently to remain impartial, although I suspect that, with all the debate surrounding the Union budget, they didn’t want their salaries questioned when they essentially just get paid to wear big cloaks at certain events.

5. Being Tagged In This.

Speak to you next semester.