Jazzy Jeff: In Praise of Gossip

There are very few resources that graduate jobseekers have in abundance. As regular readers will have established by now, mine is a life of virtual penury, I have a rapidly diminishing social circle, and jobs are looking pretty thin on the ground. The one thing I do have is more free time than an unpopular retiree. A vast expanse of unoccupied time seems to stretch out before me, yearning to be filled. I’m taunted by the calendar I received for Christmas, as yet unblemished by anything as grand as a haircut or a doctor’s appointment, far less an interview or networking event. Maybe I’ll mark down Friday as ‘nail clipping day’ just to get the ball rolling.

That said, I can’t pretend my situation is entirely bleak. Each morning I wake up around 10, stick on a Lionel Richie CD, and have breakfast in bed whilst reading the papers. Easy Like Sunday Morning indeed. However, keeping occupied can be a challenge, so this week I decided to take a break from rewriting the C.V. (after all, you can’t polish a turd) and applying to jobs I don’t actually want. Instead, I took a daytrip up to that corner of a Fife field that is forever England – my first visit to St Andrews since leaving.

I’m greeted by the familiar downpour at Leuchars. My first stop is the Union. It is still concrete, the drink is still cheap. Waiting to be served still feels like you’re a battery-farm chicken at feeding time. It is in every way the same as the last time I was here. Staying at a friend’s house, I discover the sole contents of his fridge is a crate of Ginger Joe (as the poor-man’s Crabbies, it’s perfect for me) and about 20 Muller Corner yoghurts. The quality of the student lifestyle is roughly comparable to what it was six months ago (perhaps a slight improvement). Later that evening, I went to my first house party in months, something I’ve missed like a dog that’s lost its tail. I showed up on the doorstep with two half-drunk, completely vinegar-ised bottles of wine swiped from the flat (well it’s not exactly glamorous, but it is what I’ve been longing for). I spend the next day doing what I did on an almost daily basis for four years – loitering in Taste and playing Scrabble with a pal. Things are just as I left them. Just the way I liked them. And yet something felt amiss.

Right as I play the word “dissolute” on a triple word score for a game-changing 30 points, it strikes me why things don’t quite feel right. It’s not that I don’t know anyone – friendly faces have been popping up left, right and centre, asking uncomfortable questions like “What are you doing with yourself now?” and “Why are you writing a column for a student website, even though you left ages ago?” No, what’s wrong is that I’m hopelessly out of the loop on the town gossip. Taste has long been the prime location for the dissemination of prime tittle-tattle. And I don’t know any of it.

Without the vicarious pleasure we all glean from knowing which sabbatical has had a blazing row with the principal, which student publication has an impending libel case against them, which dimwit is going to be responsible for the next “Hooray Herberts pelt Big Issue vendor with caviar in sick student craze” type tabloid headline, I’m missing out on the best that St Andrews has to offer. Gossip is the glue that holds St Andrews society, and indeed any other society, together; it facilitates the everyday social interactions that give the place its magic. Gossip provides the fodder for conversations that really don’t have any deep meaning to them, that don’t aspire to intellectualism, but that turn acquaintances into friendships, and campuses into homes. It’s what makes it your home, and no longer mine. The best I can do in terms of divulging recent gossip is to tell my Scrabble companion that there’s a flat on College Street with an unlocked door and 19 Muller Corner yoghurts in the fridge, and that he should get them quick as they’re on the turn.

My nostalgia trip complete, I traipse back to Edinburgh with a cracking hangover trailing not far behind. I breathe in deeply, relishing the hoppy perfume of the Edinburgh air (courtesy of the Caledonian brewery down the road) and take in the sandstone tenements that glow gold in the winter sun. I’m going back to my Lionel Richie CD, my lazy mornings with the papers, my parents nagging me to get a job. It’s tragic, but it’s also home. At least here I know who fancies who, who made a terrible faux-pas with their boss at Christmas, and who had a wince-inducingly embarrassing date last night.