We’re back, and quite frankly I’m bloody sick to death of that being the only thing I can think of to begin my start of term columns with.
But we are back, it’s succinct, it’s accurate. And you have to be bloody succinct in this column because they refuse to give me any more than 500 words. Consistently pointing out to me that doing so would infringe upon the space reserved for Blind Date, which you would normally find to your right in print but apparently they aren’t doing it this edition. They assure me people actually like Blind Date, as opposed to my column, which is read by nobody except my grandfather (hello granddad), my housemates and apparently now you.
The point which I’ve gotten slightly sidetracked from there is that whilst we are indeed back every term, this time it actually is different, because this is third term and therefore time to PANIC! PANIC YOU LAZY, DRINK SODDEN SCUM!
The approach of exams puts me in the mind frame of the first five minutes of Saving Private Ryan. The boats drift ever closer to the beach as the beckoning machine gun fire steadily grows louder and louder. We know that some of us will live and others will perish. A chap at the prow of the landing craft unnecessarily heralds our approach with shouts of “FIFTEEN SECONDS! TEN SECONDS!” over the deafening din.
The good news is that statistically speaking one in three of you are first years. If you count yourself amongst that merry band, then well done, but please do be so kind as to stop reading this before I reach out through the page/computer screen and strangle you. First years insist on worrying about exams which really, and please believe me here, are absolutely impossible to fail.
Those who have come before you are not being particularly hyperbolic when they tell you that you can get 40 on a first year exam by turning up, scribbling your name down, spelling it wrong, urinating on the exam paper and walking out.
I am now a second year, when exams do matter, which is great because I’ve recently realized that I spent the majority of this year watching television, drinking whichever bottle of red wine happened to be under a fiver at the Osbaldwick Sainsbury’s Local and thinking of things to write about for this damn column.
In the end I guess if I’ve got a message for this edition it’s this. Firstly, try and enjoy yourself this term, and remember that this examination/essay/dissertation period is not, even if it might feel like it, the end of the world.
My second message is as follows: Put your head between your legs, brace for impact and pray, pray with all your might to whatever god you call your own that the axe of misfortune falls on some other poor bastard and that you and yours get through the campaign relatively unscathed.
It’s true that it’s not the end of the world if you fail. The world will carry on, irrespective of whether or not you spend the next thirty years on the dole.
I jest obviously, or at least I think I do. I don’t know. What is life? Why are we here? Why am I still single? I don’t know the answers. Which, as the date of my first exam gets ever closer, is rather the fucking point.