Project Cov

Ever since moving here in September, a house party was always expected to happen. Finally we got round to organising it as a last proper piss-up before exams start, not that I have any.

It was expected that around 30 people would come around 10pm (an hour after the official start time) with some +1s with them to fill out the house. What actually happened was that at 10:30pm the actual occupants of the house and a few close mates were sat twiddling their thumbs, drinking their alcohol and questioning whether the lights they had very specifically placed were OK. The first twinges of concern were starting to build into whether anyone would be there to appreciate the very specifically placed lights and enjoy our quality company. 

By 11:30 a considerable amount of people had arrived and the party was starting to become less of a little chatter between friends and an actual party. Shots were being shot, dance moves were being moved by those already quite drunk and the beer bong was in full use.

At midnight I went outside to do the bong and out of determination not to make a tit of myself, focused incredibly hard on it. It was only after my alcohol consumption that I heard 'ain't nobody f-ing with my clique' being chanted from the living room by a huge amount of people. It was on investigating this that I found that the house had become rammed with people, half of which I did not recognise let alone know. When I asked who they were they often replied with 'why do you want to know?'. I calmly explained how I was a tenant of this house for which they replied with 'ahh sorry, good party'. 

In the living area there was at least 30 people in it which is about 25 more than has ever been in it before. The playlist we had carefully put together was now off and black American rap was being screamed out by a huge group of lads. I had had no idea who they were apart from one individual. Ashley Powell, a person I had come to know quite well over the last few years, was jumping up and down in the middle of the group like an intoxicated kangaroo. We did make eye-contact for him to shout a Kanye West lyric at me, which seemed rather innapropriate with him being incredibly white. 

The rest of the night followed as described above with shots, beer bongs, dancing, singing/ rapping and drunk conversation eating the hours away. I had somehow begun talking to two Polish people in my incredibly inconsistent and over confident Polish. They said I was 'very good' but their faces told a different story. 

At around 3:30am many of the people had left and it became mine and the other hosts responsibility to finish off the remaining alcohol. This was a mixture of beer, cider, shots and a Polish beverage called bimber which at 70% was described by Liam Quinn (another accomplice from back home) as 'nuclear cat piss'. By this point everyone was incredibly drunk and drinking now was more of a challenge than a pleasure. Mr Powell had now made plenty of new friends and spent a good few hours rapping to all his favourite gangster tracks. I did have my 5 minutes of fame orchestrating Wonderwall by Oasis on my guitar standing on one of the sofas to about 15 people screaming 'AGAIN' as I gave myself an encore.

It is fair to say the clean up the following day was awful. There was a stickiness to every possible surface, still full cans on every table and chair and for some reason the kitchen wreaked of balsamic vinegar with cracked eggs and straws littering the floor. The hangover alongside this mess was equally as bad with my head feeling like it was about to implode and my mouth feeling as if I had been eating sand all night. There was obviously a full fry up the following morning but this only intensified the feeling of vomit beginning to rise in our bellies. 

However, regardless of the hangover, the state of the house after and the damage it had done to my student loan it was such an insane night. I witnessed awful rapping, a brilliant consumption of booze and someone so drunk they tried to switch off the light on the wall with their feet as they lay drooling in their own mess.

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How coursework lead to the discovery of the creepy housemate

Though this blog will most likely go out during mid-afternoon it is important to establish that it begun at 1:36am.

The reason for this is that my body clock over the past week has become completely distorted because of that old foe... the coursework deadline. And what better way to spend this peculiar time of night than writing a blog about the state it has left my mind in and what I have discovered harbouring in the house.

Firstly, I understand that some irritating and patronising few reading this might state 'but Matt, you shouldn't have left it to last minute' (goes out specifically to my dad who loves making this point). Yes it was set ages ago, but due to seminars on novels I am writing about having only recently happened, I wasn't going to begin the work to find out I had been wrong and needed start all over, DAD.

I have currently spent 10 hours in three days in the library. Might not sound like a lot but considering the other 62 hours were spent reading on relevant academia on the work done in those 10 hours, I think I have balanced it quite well. Reading academia for those not familiar with the term just means reading published articles on your essay topic to realise you cannot write anything near as good.

I much prefer coursework to exams and English does favour this. For example for the whole of my second year I have not had to endure one exam to my relief; mainly because I am crap at them.

But the problem with having an extensive piece of work is that it has the great ability to change your patience from a solid 8 to a complete zero. Your diet will become incredibly pizza orientated and will screw with your sleeping pattern. Even now it has got to 1:53 am and I am still wide awake.

Now the time is 16:52 as I finish it up and though it has been a few days since the deadline I have found that my sleep is still a little muddled. However, I have found that one certain individual awakens at this time of night (around 12am) and goes about his 'nightly' life.

We have someone living with us who never socilaises with us and the only time we see him is when he is skyping his American girlfriend, to which he attempts to imitate her accent with complete cringeness. His actual name will be hidden but that doesn't matter as we refer to him as Paddy, not that he knows this... The reason behind this name is because of Patrick Swayze who played a ghost in the film 'Ghost', a rather peculiar nickname but certainly has relevance.

In the middle of the night I hear him ponder downstairs to the kitchen whilst his irritating and fake American accent is in its most confidence. I hear the odd 'I love you baby' followed by an incredibly sloppy kiss sound or sometimes if he is feeling rather intimate 'what was that puppy?'. I lie in bed in complete horror that anyone could possibly act in this way.The nearest I get to imitating my Polish girlfriend is by shouting 'eeeshh meeesh' in a Borat accent to describe how the Polish language is thought to by the English, or maybe just me.

I struggle to understand how anyone can live with others without attempting to talk to them or even acknowledge them. We might be a group of guys who constantly take the piss out of eachother but we are a friendly bunch.

I am now forcing myself to wake up earlier so I can go to sleep before he wakes. Mainly so I don't have to endure his poorly executed American accent claiming that he is so in love with her that he feels the need to put his mouth right up to the camera to slobber... yes he does actually do this.

I get that not everyone wishes to socialise with certain people but come on! You can't stay in your room for the entirety of time doing things in front of a camera I am pretty sure would be illegal in most countries knowing of his character.

Yet even though he comes across as an nocturnal 'thing', he has succeeded where the rest of the group has failed. He possess something that usually makes someone an integral part of any friendship group. He has the 'nickname'. And for that he has some respect but I highly doubt he will be making the most of that come tomorrow when all the 'paddies' will be out drowning themselves in Guinness on his name day, St Patricks Day.

So tomorrow I feel it might be appropriate to raise a glass of the black nectar to honour Lord Paddy of the 10th floor and all of his creepy mannerisms. He might not ever speak to us but he has sure lead to us lot giggling and in a way contributing to our happiness.

A K cider type of night

Within my group of mates at uni we have a sort of tradition whereby if there is a special occasion we decide to buy a very specific pre-drink for a night out. This pre-drink is drunk with only one outcome possible; complete lack of any self-control and dignity. It tastes rancid, has a alcohol volume of 8.4% and goes by the name of K Cider.

The occasion for such a beverage was that a mate of mine was coming up to visit me in Coventry. He has come up twice before and one ended with myself being so horrifically drunk I cannot possibly say what happened. All I will say is that I was found with my trousers round my ankles and one shoe on in bed with a question being asked to whether I was still alive. This state was also caused by the joys of 'K'.

We bought our 4 cans for £6 and there was about 10 of us drinking it and all very excited to see what was to unfold throughout the night. The taste is so bad that it has to be drunk with some sort of blackcurrant squash just so it can even be durable. Yet still no matter how much you put in, it is always drunk with a grimace and an asking of 'why am I doing this?'

By about 2 cans in we all looked at each other with a sort of concerning expression as the effects of the liquid was already well underway. But even though we knew it was all to get much worse we bravely continued.

By about 10:30 my four cans were consumed and decided to have one Guinness just so I had something to drink for the remaining 30 mins. My head was a sea of a whatever brain I had left. It felt as if the drink had dismembered my brain so that just a pink mess was slopping around in my skull. I took a fuzzy look at everyone else and the expression seemed to be the same on everyone's face. A mixture of sheer delight at being at a state that now anything is acceptable and whether they will be sick or not. One poor lad who had never drunk K's before had brought with him 8 cans and had completed 6 by the time of leaving, a very rookie error. I turned to see if he was coming as we left and all I saw was him stroking the closed bathroom door like an affectionate mother would do to a child. I shouted 'Billy!'. He turned to me like an alert meerkat, looked at me with fear and ran to the stairs leading to downstairs and all that was heard was vomitting. We presumed he would be ok and no one really wanted to clean him up so we decided to leave.

We believed getting cabs we would be much more sensible instead of taking the 20 minute walk and proceeded to find two. However, one of the group had a better idea... Strictly under the influence of alcohol, Nathan, our resident old boy at the age of 23 decided to ride his unicycle to the club. He hadn't been drinking Ks but instead had been drinking some of my 65% home-brewed polish whiskey or commonly known as 'bimber'. He surprisingly looked quite capable of doing this and we watched him cycle, (is that right for a unicycle?) with a lock in one hand, down the road and round the corner. It is important to note we did not see him for the remainder of the night but he did return with his beloved unicycle a few hours later.

Being in the club is an incredibly blurry memory. We lost half the group almost immediately. We later found out that 5 had returned home and one had fallen downstairs naked with a full 2 pint stein of water. Apparently the hilarity of watching this was uncomparable. Moreover, after getting up he remained naked and wandered the house looking for friends. The remainder of us spent the rest of the night dancing and laughing at ourselves. I was later told that I spent most of the night on the floor as I kept falling over and making a tit of myself. There was some dancing but it was more of an attempt to stay stood up than rhythmic movement to the music.

Eventually I got to a point when even my mate who had come up said 'Matt, just go home'. I declared to him that I was not going to leave him like a soldier says dramatically in some Hollywood film. He insisted and I realised that the night for me was well and truly peaked and a burger and bed was needed. So I said my emotional goodbye and got a burger, a cab (for which I think I grossly overpaid) and got back.

Before going to bed I decided to go to the toilet to risk any further embarrassment. What I found was my bathroom, which only I use, covered in shaving foam and my shower door completely broken off. I was told that the 6 can guy who was sick was found by the early returning group and they proceeded in removing his eyebrows by shaving them. This was why there was shaving foam everywhere. The removed shower door was due to one of my friends pinning another in the shower and this resulting with the removal of a whole door. I am still curious into what might have actually been happening but of course they say it was 'just a bit of fun'.

The hangover the next day was absolutely awful. I think the headache was the result of my brain fusing back together and the very sore wrist being due to the high amount of falling overs the night before. A few videos were found on phones but nothing too revealing. One had Chris, our resident Mancunian, shouting to my mate from home Ash, 'Wherever you go I fucking go'. The point of this remark is still not understood. There was one clip of me drinking water in the club and my face looking like it was melting and all muscle function was gone apart from being able to do a ridiculous and exaggerated smile to the camera.

Overall it was a night that we all intended to happen and will be looked back on with success. Not just because it was a great night with a childhood mate but that the stories from it can be told for years to come.

A traditional uni birthday

Birthdays are usually the most anticipated day of the year for the majority. Yet as you get older you usually find that they lose the excitement that they originally had until you get to your 18th.

Birthdays from 0-12 usually consist of burgers and ice-cream with the occasional birthday party thrown in every couple of years. At 12-17 they lose a lot of what they originally had and the presents normally dominate the day more than they should. 18+ they become something completely different.

At uni, birthdays aren't always seen as a positive for the individual having the birthday but more of an opportunity. Presents are very rarely anything but a drink in the pub but this is not to mean that it is a kind gesture of buying them there favourite drink.

My birthday started with myself buying a pint and everyone sat together enjoying a simple beverage. Then out of nowhere there were two shots waiting for me on the table. One being black sambuca, a vile liquid thick with everything evil in the world. The second was chili sambuca, a bright green acid that when the disgusting taste has passed a burning goes about destroying your mouth and throat. Luckily the following two drinks were a pint of Carlsberg and my favourite, a pint of Guinness. A few shots of tequila followed and a couple more pints and then the pricks of the group had there say in buying me a drink. Joe, whose birthday drinking session is luckily tonight, bought me something called 'liquid cocaine'. This is a shot made of tequila, gin, vodka and baileys. Then a little bit is extracted so that when necking the shot, the extracted bit is then snorted through a shortened straw. The pain cannot be described in normal langauge but to simplify it, it is not a pleasant experience. The last drink was something called a 'gas chamber'. This is in essence flaming sambuca but the fumes are kept so that after drinking the shot the fumes are inhaled, this time luckily through the mouth. A few pints followed and the rest of the night was left for me to try and digest the foul drinks and for them to laugh at my drunk sayings and doings.

One of the main benefits of having a birthday at uni is that firstly you don't have to worry about coming home to your mum or dad waiting to judge you or see you embarrassing yourself. Another is that if you are living with the people who are giving you the drinks, it is their responsibility to get you home safely so you can get yourself to a proper screwed up state.

So to finish up, if you have a mate who has a birthday coming up don't just settle for buying them a drink. Buy them the strongest/ most repulsive drink that is available as if you're going to spend money on someone, make sure it is well spent. However, this is not to say you shouldn't look after them. As soon as they get that drunk they are your responsibility. So just make sure they get home and that when you are there then anything goes.

A drunken story

Last Friday (23rd) we found ourselves in the usual scenario of being in the pub, drinking and exchanging jokes at eachothers expense. I was drinking beer at a slow pace as I was hoping to be in the pub for a good few hours and didn't want to peak too early. However, some of the group were planning on going clubbing later in the evening. They tried to persuade me to come but after my first week back at uni I just wanted a chilled out drinking session.

Who was going and who was not was pretty much decided. All apart from one individual, Aaron. Now Aaron originally said no to this and was drinking his double-vodka lemonades at a comfortable pace for the same reasons as I was. But after an hour of chatting and contemplating, Aaron thus decided that clubbing would be a good idea and decided to go. However, there was a problem. When Aaron goes clubbing he can't just be tipsy or even drunk. He has to be absolutely obliterated, so that any hint of self-regard/ safety are long gone. He was though at this point in the night barely fuzzy from what he had consumed and with there being only an hour and a half left till departure, he had to speed up his intake of alcohol. What wasn't expected was the sheer rise in speed of consumption. Originally he was buying one drink to last about half an hour. Now he was buying two at a time to last for 15 minutes before getting another 2. So by the time it came to his leaving he was pretty much seeing double of everything and his eyes glazed over with what I can only imagine being vodka, as I doubt there was any room left for it to go within his body. But either way, he felt he had succeeded in getting him to the state he felt was acceptable to go clubbing and they departed.

3 hours later.

I returned from the pub with some grub and set about eating it whilst drinking some water so that the hangover the next day could be tamed a little. After this was finished I decided to head to bed at around 2am.

Then it all kicked off.

I heard what can only be described as a mixture of a heavy metal scream and the sound of a gag. Yet though this surprised me at first, I immediately knew who was the culprit and decided to investigate. I got to the bathroom on the first floor and found it locked so with a little pick locking, I opened it. What I saw was a hairy blob on the floor with its head buried in the toilet bowl vomiting furiously.

Aaron loves a good flirt

'Mate, you alright?'
The reply was just a desperate 'uh huh'.
So I tapped him on the back and left to go back to bed.
What followed was enormous banging coming from the same bathroom Aaron was in. I decided to just leave him to do what he wants but was told the following morning through another source what was actually happening.

Aaron had decided to take a shower but somehow was struggling to close the shower door, even though there is no lock of any kind and just needs to be pulled towards him to close it. So all
I can imagine is that he was pulling it so furiously that it was bouncing back out the hinge, making him think something was wrong. A very surprised Abbie was then the unfortunate person to open the bathroom door to see him now naked and very confused to why the shower door wasn't closing and wasn't even switching on. He hadn't switched on the correct switch and just stood there in bewilderment. Abbie then helped him switch on the shower and left him. She returned 20 minutes later to find him naked and sleeping on the floor of the bathroom in the pitch black.

Adding to supplies

Next morning.

Myself and Billy first met him on the sofa looking pretty awful and asked him what happened and what time he got back. He didn't know and had no recollection of what had happened the night before and that someone apart from his mother had now seen him naked. So Billy and I decided to see what state his room was in.

Firstly there was sick on his bed and his bin had a lovely puddle of the previous nights dinner and vodka. However the most shocking element was walking into his room. I was wearing slippers, Billy was not and he quickly commented on how the majority of the carpet was soaking wet.
'Maybe its water?' Billy asked in hoping that I would agree.
'Maybe it's not?' I replied starting to giggle. Billy on the other hand, did not find it very amusing.
So to clarify we asked Aaron what the substance on his floor was and it was indeed urine. However, the smell, according to Aaron did not occur until the Monday after and he has informed me that it still lingers.

He did attempt to clean up mind you. He used Billy's flannel which he claims, 'no one used'. He has now promised to purchase a new one for Billy who is distraught that one of his Christmas presents has been used to soak up urine.

This story is pretty tame in comparison to others but I thought I better start light and build up to the really ridiculous events that have happened.

Back to the student bar!

Tonight returns the most enjoyable time of the week, the Friday night student bar drinking session.

Uni students usually come in three forms. The clubbers, the pubbers and the non-drinkers.

Non-drinkers are a rare breed but do exist in the bowels of the library or eating some fancy meal with the money they have that wasted on booze.

The clubbers usually just like pre-drinking themselves into oblivion, clubbing and hoping for themselves to wake up next to a new friend, this applying mostly to guys, girls are far more sensible.

The pubbers, like myself, enjoy going to a pub, drinking their body weight in alcohol, grabbing some food and somehow finding their home. It seems to be that no matter how drunk I have got in the past, I might not know my name or where I was 5 minutes prior, I WILL find my home. Sometimes with an injury from falling over en route or some sign or traffic cone that asked to come along with me. If you aren't the one who does do this, you will have a friend who does. Mine being a lad called Aaron, or 'Sat-nav', this being due to his ability to find anywhere after alcohol is administered. His collection within his room at the end of the first year of uni would be enough to compete with any builders supplies.

Our 'local' is a student bar called ''Quids', which sounds promising from the title which is due to 99% of shots being a pound each.

The usual will be a £2 pint of Carlsberg for myself and the others a £2.50 pint of Strongbow for the cider drinkers.

The night will usually start with keen and polite conversation with the pints going down at a surprisingly quick pace, maybe the odd shot now and then. This is then followed by the odd submission in the juke box. Oasis being a cliche but common choice.

After the 5/6th pint, the pace of consumption will slow a little bit and the banter to turn sour.

Every group has 'that' guy who always seems to get the piss taken out of.

We luckily have about 3/4 which means the nights are never dull, the group being of about 8-15, depending on work load etc.

At pint 7/8 some will go to a club, some might have 'hit the wall' and others just carry on with the banter flowing. The banter can vary from someone doing something ridiculous during the week, or anytime really, or if you are like our friend Chris, have a Dad called Brian who likes cooking and so happens to be bald, and have this escalate into him being Brian the bumder. Might not be funny to you but for us it could lift the mood on any situation. (Nothing homosexual in cooking or being bald by the way)    

At pint 9/10 it is usually time to leave. However this is not before getting a tower-burger meal. Now you might ask what this is? It is simply a chicken burger with a hash brown inserted. Might sound simple but it is hands down the only thing you want at that stage of the night.

The next part I'm not entirely sure about but we seem to find our way home and into bed. I can't really elaborate anymore on that.

The next morning is usually a hangover, a cup of coffee, a bacon sandwich and a good laugh at the clubbers who 'were so close to pulling' the night before but in essence walked a girl home for her to say, goodnight and close the door.

This happens every weekend without fail. Tonight is my first since being home for Christmas and I can't wait!

An insight into the stereotype of uni life

University life is often believed to be a booze obsessed and money stricken experience but there is so much to it than that... sometimes. 

Now it varies greatly on what you study. If you are like myself who is currently doing an English degree (at Coventry University) it is usually scrutinised for being a 'hobby' or 'dos' degree. This is most likely due to the vast amounts of spare time given to students. However, this isn't for the use of sleeping or discussing the ways in which a budget of £2.50 can be used to supply sufficient amount of alcohol for a night out; we leave that for the math students.

No.

This time is allocated for the in-depth reading of many texts but those who study math or some other 'useful' degree seem to regard this as a enjoying past time. 

In response to this I say that reading texts such as 'Absalom, Absalom!' is not always an enjoyable experience. But I would rather be doing this than doing 4 pages of calculations to find that the value of x was some number I could not care less about. 

Debates between the southerners and northerners are common within the university household. 

If you are from the south of England like myself and speak correctly (awaiting some comment about that), you will find many others will like to argue the pronunciation of 'grass', 'brass' or 'bath'. Granted that bath is not spelt 'barth' but that is the way it's said, get over it.

Another common debate/ argument is whether the meal you have at around 1pm is 'lunch' or 'dinner' and whether your evening meal is 'tea' or 'dinner'. Apparently 'lunch' doesn't exist up north... Thankfully though we can agree on breakfast being in the morning. 

The nights out, drinking, societies/ sports will be posted in another blog as that is an entire subject in itself and will need sufficient concentration to understand how a pack of 4, yes only 4, 'K' ciders will leave the rest of the night to someone else's doing.

So to just finish off, if you are from the south and find yourself living with northerners, just play along with it, they will learn eventually. And if you are from the north and reading this then us southerners aren't too bothered about how you say things, we can't understand you half the time anyway.

 Me (middle) trying to escape a couple of northerners in a club. They sniffed me out from the crowd and didn't leave me for the rest of the night.