Let’s not lie to ourselves, sixth form was the best time of our life

Everyone says “uni is the best three years of your life”. I’ve always found this a rather depressing statistic: it’s all down hill from 21 seemingly, thanks for coming.

But I think worse still is the way this seems to completely discount sixth form, potentially the greatest – definitely the most underrated – two years I’ve ever experienced.

The stakes were lower back then. Yes, when you’re in sixth form, GCSE’s seem easy, and when you’re at university A Levels seem easy, but let’s be honest – they were. Life was chilled back then, we went to lessons and messed around from September to March and then focussed for exams in May: you weren’t able to fuck up in the same way you are now.

Miss this x

People tell you university is the best three years because of your new found freedom. Okay, we get to stay out later than normal and get drunk on school nights, but for all intents and purposes ‘freedom’ is just haplessly trying to survive by doing the things Mum used to do for you. ‘Freedom’ is beans on toast for a main meal, shrunk jumpers and sub-zero living conditions.

On reflection, sixth form was pretty sweet, right? Don’t get me wrong: at times you’re desperate to get back to uni, home sometimes feels a bit cramped and you miss going out, but we were blissfully unaware of it at the time, and there’s something nostalgic about that innocence: an innocence since corrupted by house music and dirty underwear.

As if that wasn’t enough, do you remember 18ths? Whether it was a house party, your first clubbing experience, or someone hiring a massive marquee in their garden, 18th birthday’s were spectacular. Alcohol was free and still a novelty, you knew everyone there and people still made a real effort.

I think I’m meant to be an Angry Bird too but

The feeling of rocking up to an 18th with your squad is something which can never be replicated. Nowadays, our black ties have been exchanged for Adidas Superstars, Toploader’s turned to Bondax and Smirnoff’s gone all ketamine. Gone are the days where you’d walk in to a marquee, scour the perimeter for the bar and the boys and nail a jagër bomb, now we rock up at a club and wait awkwardly in the queue outside before paying just to go in.

This has 18th written all over it

School was criminally under appreciated. I’ve said before it wasn’t that hard, and it wasn’t. But how good was sixth form anyway? The smaller class sizes gave way to outrageous chat, you could call your teacher a dick and not get in trouble and still get away with playing football in your lunch break. All your mates were in the same place and you saw them every day, it was incredible.

Sport was awesome, too. You could be in the first team for rugby (I wasn’t), and parade around school like you owned the place – it was quality. Your name would be read out in assembly and you’d have recognition for doing well.. Do well at university and you have to strawpedo a bottle of gin.

HERO

And if the whole experience wasn’t enough, it was rounded off with the loosest, most classic holiday possible. The sacred ‘lads holiday’, the underwhelming culmination of months of hype about beers and girls which inevitably deteriorated in to hospital escapes and spooning your mates. But it didn’t matter that nothing went as planned because you had a bloody good time anyway.

Reality

You knew what you were getting in sixth form: the days were consistently brilliant, teachers cared about you and the mates you’ve had all your life were right there. Uni’s amazing, I love it, but it will never be Sixth Form.