The great institutional British University society holds many historic traditions. One we should perhaps be less proud of is Fresher’s Week. Going to University is a scary time for Johnny Student, even if he pretends it isn’t. Loading his one lonely suitcase (which is filled to the brim with condoms) into his dad’s Range Rover, as mum cries into her sleeve for the 15th time that morning. It’s not that he doesn’t care. Nor that he won’t miss them, not yet. You might think it’d hit home as soon as he walks back into his halls, waving goodbye to his parents just after lunch because his dad wants to beat the traffic. But it doesn’t. By that time he’s too busy laying out tight chequered shirts and trendy jeans on his bed deciding which to wear for the first night of Fresher’s Week. His head’s far too busy dreaming of all the mountains of casual sex he’s certain to obtain, all of it more adventurous than in that porn mag him and his mate Jason found in that bush that one time.

This is all Fresher’s Week is really. One big excuse for all the new students to get to know each other by destroying half their liver, along with half their brain, and stockpiling more sexual diseases than a porn star’s toilet seat.

I’ll be honest with you, I’ve never really been one for sexual diseases myself, so it’s not surprising during my first year, I didn’t partake in many University endorsed activities. At the start of my third year, I started to worry I may have missed out somewhat. As it was the last year, I saw it as the last opportunity to enjoy Fresher’s Week activities (and yes, the loose underwear situation employed by many). The result of that came in one of Leeds Me Up’s best events (they’re all good) entitled Fresher’s For All. Which is why, after half way through Ben’s birthday, I turn to Nick and say…

“Nick… are we, in King’s College Student Union?”

“Yeah, we are.”

“Is it… Is it Fresher’s Week Nick?”

“It is yeah.”

“Aren’t I 24, and aren’t you 26 Nick?”

“Yep.”

“And all these people, they’re 18 aren’t they?”

“They are yeah.”

“Are we, the worse people in the world?”

“I think we are yeah.”

I’ve named the event Fresher’s For All 2 (Also because Fresher’s For All II looks weird).

How ever did this come about I’m sure is the first thing you’d ask, as many people have done. Well, the story (finally) goes like this. Nick’s mate Ben from Stafford Uni was thoughtful enough to be born around this time 25 years ago. And to thank him for his kindness, we joined him along with some other guys from London and Stafford by heading out for a few cheeky halves.

First of all Nick and I arrive at Ben’s flat, which is quite enviously, practically on Piccadilly Circus. Even more enviously, the bastard manages to get a way with only paying a couple of quid for it. The place is so cocking central, that upon exiting the flat, out in the street, we saw Ray fecking Quinn making his way out of a side door of whatever theatre he’s doing karaoke at. Cue the musical football chants “We love you Quinny… We do!”, “We love you Quinnster!” and “Get in there Quinnitch!”

After a short taxi ride for what I’m sure was a ten minute walk, we waited for an hour overlooking the river, for the club to actually open at 11.

Before we left Ben’s flat, I remember him saying we were going to some club in Temple, and that we should leave soon because it was quite hard to get into. I’d assumed he meant shirt and shoes, which was worrying as no one was wearing either, and Nick had a beard on so he had no chance. Turns out, when he said it was difficult to get in, he meant without a student card. We’d been tipped off by his friend George’s cousins (recent graduates themselves). I felt like someone’s divorced uncle. So out of place was I, that even after making eyes at a shapely blonde, or more accurately having eyes made at me, seeing her later on on the dance floor I started to dance my way over, before midway through re-thinking the situation. ‘She’s 18, this won’t end well’, then dancing away again. Nick however had a slightly different opinion of us snugly filling the ‘Cool older guys’ hole. He convinced me to walk over with him, and so, drunk with ambition (and 6 ciders) we jump, somewhat gung ho into the situation.

Problem 1. Two girls sat on a sofa. We start to walk over. No chairs! Where are we going to sit? Saving the situation, we grab two rogue chairs conveniently in our path, possibly from someone at/in/ the bar/toilets, but without looking back it’s easy to get away with.

Problem 2. As we sit down, we realise the two girls are in conversation, proper mouth over ear conversation. There’s only two of them, no stragglers. No opportunity for eye contact. What do you do? Can’t just steam in and start chatting, interrupting their conversation. I know you’ve gotta act like a cunt to get anywhere in this world, but there’s no need to be rude is there? So we just wait there. And wait there.

And wait there.

It’s obvious the only thing they’re talking about is why we’re not getting the hint and giving up. The conversation finally finishes, and they’ve decided the only way out is to get up and walk off themselves. As she stands to her feet, the blonde classily manages to shoot me an apologetic look that says

“Sorry, you’ve just got no game.”

I of course give her the standard “I wasn’t interested anyway you lesbian” pout as standard. Then Nick and I take the sofa, wondering if anyone would believe us if we said it was an elaborate sofa-win plan, which to be fair, achieved maximum success. Realising no one would we got up and left, revelling in our truly epic combined fail.