(Image Creds: Oliver Ashby)
FRIDAY:
The day started on the bus. Things have certainly changed from my experience of Roses two years ago, because back then, the usual convention was for the cool kids to sit at the back of the bus. But me and my fellow media compatriots – the undisputed standard of coolness – and I found ourselves proudly cushioned on the first row. Listening to the bus driver’s exotic music taste, which ranged from Taylor Swift’s Elizabeth Taylor and Pitball’s Hotel Room Service, made for a surprisingly upbeat journey, getting everyone excited for what we all suspected would be a perfectly convenient distraction from our exams. I mean, an intense educational program to celebrate the sporting achievements of York students.
In true Dance Moms fashion, the bus was chaotic. Some girls were doing makeup. At one point, some losers at the back of the bus (because, remember, it’s the cool kids who sit at the front) started a half-hearted attempt to get a rally of ‘happy birthday’ going. I would give their singing a 6/10, or a 3 points equivalent in archery.
Other than that, the rest of the trip was pretty uneventful. The most exciting thing was when we almost got rammed into by the most wobbly car in front of us. I’ve never seen a bus driver so provoked. He yelled, “You’ve got no indicators”, and tried to beat his horn to get his attention, but to no avail. His attempt to grab his attention were similar to my monkey brain’s attempt to remind myself that I do, in fact, have a dissertation to write.
Coming from a girl who can’t drive, I found the whole experience awfully traumatic. I thought I might cheer my spirits up by looking at the score sheets, but was dismally disappointed to see the score sheet being 36/7. I’m sure there’s some sort of 6-7 joke I could make about that, but I’ll refrain.
“Don’t look at the score sheet. We just go for the vibes now,” my bus partner warmly told me.
This turned out to be a prominent theme throughout the day.
Stepping off the bus, we were kindly directed to our accommodation by a member of staff dressed in red. “Keep on walking down the path, and the reception area will be just past the pond.” The pond, I thought. I’ll be the judge of that.
The supposed ‘pond’ in question seemed rather unimpressive in comparison with our own beloved lake. The hills, on the other hand, were much mightier. I started to understand why these Lancastrians seemed to be so much fitter than us. Nothing to do with the much larger sporting facilities. Nothing to do with student funding. The real reason for their athletic prowess can be explained by the cumulative effects of bracing these gigantic hills every day. If there were a calf bodybuilding competition, Lancaster would come out on top.
SATURDAY:
In true Cathy Earnshaw-style (Wuthering Heights), I spent most of the day running around the empty fields, trying to find people who would let me interview them. I familiarised myself with the Lancastrian landscape and spent more time than I’d like to admit trying to find somewhere to awkwardly kneel on the floor, catching obscured glimpses of some sport I’d never heard of (what even is korfball?), whilst also not trying to crush one of the beautifully painted signs beside me. Signs like ‘[insert player name here], please have sex with me’ were not at all out of place.
Saturday was also a day of meeting up with old friends. Every Yorkie, it seemed, turned positively giddy at the sight of seeing someone else dressed in white. I reckon many of them would have hugged a seagull if it had been that way inclined. The bird, not the York students, I should say. At several points throughout the day, I thought I recognised people, only to realise that they were wearing red, so they were probably not the girl I thought I recognised from that random first-year seminar.
Seeing ‘university building’, completely uncapitalised, was a sore sight for my editorial eyes. Dare I say, it may have caused permanent damage to my Vision.
One highlight of the day was watching the head of YSTV, looking to collect breakfast for 80 people, stand in complete disbelief upon being handed a paper bag containing a fun little assortment of random fruit. A perfect picnic snack, but not, as I’m sure he would confirm, adequate supplies for feeding dozens of hungry media mouths. Maybe LUSU was hoping to recreate the parable of feeding the 5000. But, despite my earlier remarks about Lancaster being hilly, I don’t think Jesus Chris would come back just to ensure that student media is adequately fed.
SUNDAY:
How many more times must I log into the LUSU wifi before I Lu-se it? I swear I spend half my time watching the matches, and the other half trying to log onto the wifi.
As a small architectural quibble, the women’s bathrooms were not made for big queues. With only three stalls and limited corridor space, it’s a bit of a squash when a match finishes, and everyone rushes out to the loos. The buildings might be purpose-built, but they’re certainly not built for the swarms that flourish out during the intervals. Sorry, part time. Sport terminology is not my forté. Sorry. Sport terminology is not my ball game, I should say.
One thing I learned from this experience is that a media pass is like its own form of pretty privilege. It can get you just about anywhere. It’s quicker for security to simply waive you in, then quibble about whether the pass you have gives you access to the specific room you’re trying to march into. Sometimes, I worry that my newfound skill at wrangling myself into mysterious rooms will go to my head. Maybe I’ll start to push my luck and ask for more outrageous things. Like for the air conditioning to be turned off when we’re sleeping in an already-freezing lecture hall.
If you want to see true athleticism in its raw, brute form, you need to watch a group of students running towards the free Red Bull cans as soon as the staff have finished reloading them. I bet you didn’t know Red Bull was sponsoring Roses. But don’t worry, neither did anyone else, until they arrived on the day, due to the lack of advertising.
As the weekend continued, the screams became coarser, more deflated. Much like the York team. And although York suffered a historic loss, five consecutive Roses losses, I managed to snag a window seat on the coach back. So pretty decent weekend, I’d say.