Column: Tom Davies

Not the "Daviesian Empire"
Not the “Daviesian Empire”

The Graduation Game, Or why I’ve just given up (The Final Chapter)

Come Children, gather around the campfire and hear another tale from Uncle Tom of what is in store for you when you have reached his advanced age.

Stories from the third year frontline, have occupied the majority of my columns this year, simply because that’s all third year is. First and Second years are not defined by their year of study, third years are just third years, your sports teams, your societies, your personal achievements from the rest of university become secondary to your primary classification.

By third term, third year, being third year becomes your default response to everything. Come out tonight? No, I’m Third year. Do me a favour? No, I’m Third year. Why is this man tied up in the boot of your car Mr Davies? Oh my god Officer can’t you tell I’m Third year!

On the plus side, I am now entirely out of contact hours, I’m done, caput. Never again shall I have to make generalized, vague platitudes in a seminar as a replacement for having actually done the reading, never again will I spend an hour checking my Facebook in lectures. I will admit there was a certain feeling of relieved accomplishment when I left a seminar room for the last time. Although, this was chequered by the realization that really, did I ever deserve the right to wipe sweat from my brow after three years of academic toil, in reality it never felt like I toiled very much at all.

Regardless, all that remains for me now is the final dissertation slog, street by street, and then the obligatory triumphant waving of the red flag from atop the roof of the Reichstag, beyond that nothing much has been happening. With all my efforts being dedicated to the endgame of my University career, I’ve officially become boring, which is a nightmare if you write a column for a student newspaper. I spent all of Easter holiday holed up in my house in York, largely alone, reading about the minutia of the trials and tribulations of the Liberal Party in South West England. In between that I watched every episode of Community, which I’d never gotten into for some reason but would very much recommend.

Oh and I went skiing for a week for the first time in my life, I was shit at it, thanks for asking.

So now that we’re all caught up, I really have very little else to remark on this time, I’ll try and save some of the vague platitudes on University and how, oh you must make sure you make the most of this fleeting time you have, take it from one whose time is fast coming to an end, for my final column.

With that in mind, here’s an account of my long running Civilization 5 game with my housemate, which has now replaced my social life.

The great Daviesian Empire had stood for nigh on 6000 years when Sean’s tank divisions rolled over the border and obliterated our pitiful military defences. A great powerhouse of science and industry, but virtually bankrupt and having lost most of its armed forces in drawn out wars with its colonial fringes across the sea. Sean, the penny pincher king, and his vast war chest saved up from centuries of running his empire like he was fucking Smaug or something, had militarized to a level that would make the North Koreans jealous, and swiftly broke and occupied my great border city.

Two Nuclear missiles launched at what was, until very recently, my own city, and he had cause to think again. As the faces melted off both his soldiers and my former citizens alike, I smiled, and took a sip of my Rosé wine purchased as part of a three bottles for ten pound deal from the Hull Road Wine House.

The war was by no means won, nor the tide turned, but I had struck back, and reminded my opponent that the road to Daviesport would be long, and costly.

Your move Bossick, you sneaky little shit.