Sunday, 17 January 2016

When are you going to grow up and get a real job?

This week, with the overwhelming loss of David Bowie, the world became a slightly less colourful place. Many people admire Bowie for his outrageous talent, and his majestic imagination. But personally, I believe that it's his brazen attitude to life that made him truly admirable. By defying the norm, Bowie became utterly heroic, and totally inspirational to so many people. For me, Bowie is a constant reminder that it can actually be pretty fucking great to go against expectations.

A few years ago, I lived with my boyfriend and worked a standard 9-5 job. My life was comfortable (as long as you ignore the fact that my boyfriend and I were genuinely living in a shed, in the back of his parent's garden). Back in my white-collar days, I had a routine, a fixed income, a pretentious car, and I knew who I'd be sharing a bed with every night. Tragically, I even knew when I should wear underwear that I hadn't owned since I was a teenager (apparently Topshop's 'Girl Boxers' weren't actually a turn on in the MySpace days of 2007, and the same knickers definitely weren't a turn on for my boyfriend five years later). Surprisingly to some, I was also even pretty good at my job.

According to the expectations of modern society, I had everything (apart from a bathroom). In reality, I had merely settled for an easy life, and I certainly wasn't enjoying it, so something had to change. Even Karl Pilkington, who is literally known for moaning, recently said that if you're not happy then you need to something about it.

It's not that I don't believe in donning a suit, and settling's just not what I want right now. One day, I might find myself working regular hours in an office again. I might even go home to a house that I actually own, and I might even end up having legitimate children. But for now, that day seems more unrealistic than Bill Nighy asking me if he can come round for an adult sleepover. Occasionally (very occasionally), I do secretly envy one of my oldest friends, who has happily settled, but that's mainly because her little girl is obscenely gorgeous. If I do ever have children, it's likely that they'll be mistaken as gremlins that managed to escape from the film set back in 1984.

Eventually, after a stream of ridiculous life choices and monumental cock-ups, I realised that I'd only be happy if I braved going against the grain. Finally, I stopped caring about other people's expectations, and I started to pursue a more creative career (which obviously means that I now work in a bar). Despite the fact that having an entire weekend off is now more rare for me than successfully shaving off all of my leg hair (I have a short attention span, and I'm unfortunately hairy), I'm significantly happier than I was a few years ago. 

Of course, when you've left home to try and pursue something different, there is always a risk that you'll fail spectacularly. Failure might mean that you'll end up having to move back home with nothing but great memories, and the challenging experience of trying to con a bunch of new people into being your friend. Saying that it'd suck to go back home, with your tail between your legs, would be an understatement, but you'd be okay eventually. You'd be okay eventually because you'll know that you tried, and there's no reason why you wouldn't be able to try again. Remember, even Bowie once released some absolutely awful material (if you disagree then you should definitely google 'The Laughing Gnome'), but he did eventually go on to blow everyone's mind.

Although I think I'm mainly saying that failing will be okay incase there does comes a day when I'm forced to inform my dad that I have to move back home, and that it'd be real stellar of him if he'd just tell any debt collectors that I've actually emigrated to an obscure mining town in Peru. Even though I don't care about money, you do apparently need to be able to pay your rent regularly. When your main source of income is your wage from a bar, you definitely won't make it rain all the way to the bank. In fact, it probably won't even lightly drizzle on payday.

Regardless of the uncertainty of what will happen (even within the next month), by deciding to give up my white-collar lifestyle, I've become the happiest version of myself. So, next time someone asks me if I'm ever going to 'grow up and get a real job', I'll be able to tell them, rather happily, that they should just piss off.

Thursday, 31 December 2015

What have you done this year, to make you feel proud?

I’m sorry Heather Small, but my list is quite short. Despite not being the winner of a Nobel Prize this year, 2015 has been absolutely outstanding. Although instead of rehashing stories, I thought it would be more insightful to reflect on some of the feedback that I’ve received throughout 2015.

‘You should just never talk’
Unsurprisingly, and rather worryingly, this hasn’t just come from one person. Honestly, I completely agree with them. It’s rare that I go a day without causing myself physical pain due to cringing so much over something I’ve said. I suffer awfully from word vomit, and I seem to be confidentially awkward; it’s not a great combination. Luckily, I don’t have a desk job, so I can literally just walk away whenever I regret opening my mouth. The only silver lining is that I seem to do a lot of extra cardio.

‘Your life is just like Bridget Jones’’
Secretly, I hope that my friend said this to me because he wouldn’t be surprised to hear that I managed to charm Colin Firth and Hugh Grant. In reality, he probably said it because I’m quite hopeless, carrying a little extra weight, and I shamelessly still listen to Madonna’s ‘Like a Virgin’. Although I’m really hoping that 2016 won’t end with me being locked in a Thai prison.   

‘Why do you laugh so much?’
This is probably one of the hardest questions that’s been posed to me, and I once taught children who ask the most obscure questions (yes, someone thought I was responsible enough to shape the minds of the future generation). My friend was in a terrible mood when he asked me this question, and I can’t help but feel like he meant it as an insult. I can’t remember how I responded, but I would like this opportunity to say ‘fuck you’ (affectionately…obviously). To me, laughter is one of my most favourite things. I love it when people have wonderfully infectious laughs, and I love it when people make me laugh.

‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but you seem like the kind of girl that likes mayonnaise. ‘
If this had come from a stranger in a bar, I might’ve thought that this was a pretty assumptive sexual innuendo. Thankfully, this came from a friend. He was right; I really do like mayonnaise. In fact, it’s probably one of my favourite condiments.
My friend’s assumption may have been based on the fact that I’m clearly not the kind of girl that asks for no dressing with her salad, even though I probably should once in a while. Or it could’ve been because I told him about the time that I got in after a night out, and ate an entire pack of fajitas wraps just with garlic mayonnaise. I still don’t understand why I’m not a healthy lifestyle poster girl yet.

‘You’re quite hard to please. I mean, you just don’t seem to be impressed by much.’
Originally, I struggled to understand why my sister had this opinion of me (I’m ridiculously pleased whenever someone buys me a bag of chocolate raisins). After giving it some thought, I realised that my sister was right; I’m not easy to please. I dislike it when people I hardly know compliment me because it seems shallow, and often leaves me feeling uncomfortable. I don’t massively care for material things, and I definitely don’t care about how much money someone has. I find it awkward, rather than comical, when vloggers pull silly faces during a make-up tutorial. I’m also not a great fan of people ‘getting to know me’ because I find serious conversations about myself quite difficult, and I'd much rather be mocked instead.  
Truthfully, I think I’m just impressed by things that aren’t as apparent. I’m impressed by people who are willing to stand up for themselves, and by people who aren’t desperate to ‘fit in’. I’m impressed by people who take risks, and are willing to try new things. I remember people who make sure that you get home ok, and care about your safety (even if they deny it the next day). I’m impressed by creativity, and by people who want to learn. This summer, I made friends with a guy who embodies a lot of these things. He didn’t care what people thought of him (which is why he could often be found rocking a crop top and dungarees), and he wouldn’t hesitate to include people (even if it sometimes backfired). For these reasons, he impressed me. Plus, it probably helped that he is one of the funniest people that I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. Outrageous, but hilarious.

‘You’re such a fairy elephant.’
This is a family favourite, and I hope it’s said with affection. My family will be the first to admit that I’m clumsy. There are even certain things in the house that I’m not actually allowed to touch. Even when I’m helping with the washing up, my dad will call for back up for the more fragile items.  I’m genuinely surprised that they haven’t shipped me off to charm school yet. I guess there’s always time. If I ever disappear, I’m not visiting Aunt Jean on the coast, I’ve been sent to charm school.

‘You’ll never be cool.’
This might’ve been someone’s opinion, but it’s also a fact. I own too many bumbags, I’m far too partial to dad jokes, and I’m allergic to cheap piercings. I’m just waiting, in vain, for the moment when being uncool becomes ironically cool.  

‘I admire the fact that you wear jeans when you go out. Isn’t it difficult to get guys to like you?’
This did actually come from a good friend. Even though I can’t help but feel like she was trying to drop a hint that I should dress more provocatively, I couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for her. There was a time, thankfully a long time ago, when I would’ve gone out in outrageously painful heels and revealing dresses. I hated it. I’d feel ridiculously uncomfortable, and I’d often wake up with stubs for feet. Plus, I could never be a fake tan kind of girl because I’m so pale. Fake tan just makes me look like a rogue Oompa Loompa.
Eventually, I discovered that nights are so much more fun when you’re wearing shoes that won’t make you want to cry. It’s also a lot easier to aggressively dad-dance when you’re not concentrating on pulling your dress down, or checking that your nipples are still covered. And, if I’m being honest, I don’t go out with the hope of meeting a guy, so who honestly cares if a strange guy finds my body attractive or not?
‘Your puns are terrible.’
Honestly, this was the most offensive feedback that I received this year. Yes, I even found it more offensive than my first hate mail.

This year has taught me a great deal, and I’ve laughed an awful lot, but I’m looking forward to 2016. I’m hoping (rather optimistically) that there will be 366 days of frolicking, adventures, happiness, and ridiculous new tales to tell.

Happy New Year Everybody.

Wednesday, 30 December 2015

What did you get in your stocking?

I received nothing. I mean...I was given presents, but my stocking wasn't visited. But that's alright with me, given that Christmas definitely isn't about receiving a sackful (just call me 'Butter', because I'm on an innuendo roll). It genuinely is true what people say; Christmas is simply about spending time with the people that you love.  

Of course, apart from spending time with loved ones, we all know that the festive season is also wonderful because you're actively encouraged to gorge in an extortionate amount of food and alcohol. Seriously, I have become so round during the festive period that I could have rolled back up to Manchester. In fact, that probably would've been better than the sweaty, sardine train that I had to travel on. Nothing says 'the holidays are over' quite like a stranger using your head as a handrail. I'm aware that I'm not a huge asset to the community, but I still believe that I have more to offer than that.

As a child, I found Christmas Eve terribly exciting. To me, it seemed enchanting that you could lure Santa to your house with the promise of a glass of Chery and a mince pie (which is actually how I still try and lure men to my house, rather unsuccessfully). When I grew up, I discovered that Christmas Eve actually gets better. It becomes better because all of your friends will happily don their favourite Christmas jumpers, and drink too many mulled wines with you. This year was no different. Although, instead of mulled wines, there were lots of J├Ągerbombs and Beer Pong (apparently we were all absolute fresher 'lads' again).

Personally, I think I enjoy Christmas Eve so much because everyone is home. Even my friend, who moved to Australia nearly two years ago, came home for Christmas. Although her newly acquired Australian accent made it quite challenging to take anything she said seriously (sorry about that). Yet there are downsides to Christmas Eve. When you haven't seen friends for a while, they strangely seem to become that uncle, who you’re never actually related to, and they begin to ask questions about your rather stale love life. This line of enquiry might temporarily make me feel quite ill, because I hate emotions, but it wouldn't normally bother me. But there's something about the festive season that makes you more aware that there’s no one in your life who will dance along to A-Ha with you, and then join you in an adult sleepover.

Given that I was fuelled by rum, baileys, and foolish festive spirit, I decided to take action. This was a catastrophic error, and I'm not exaggerating. Christmas may be about spending time with your loved ones, but it's not about sending them a WhatsApp message at 3am on Christmas Eve. It's not as charming as you think it’ll be (mainly because you’re not Andrew Lincoln in Love Actually). Brutally, you're just drunk, and making things quite awkward for yourself. Disappointingly (even though it’s probably for the best), your declaration will not be taken seriously, and you will just be called a silly sod. It turns out that no one will chase you barefoot down a cobbled street just to kiss you. Who knew that life isn't actually like it is in the movies?

As a child, waking up on Christmas Day is magical. When I grew up, I discovered that waking up on Christmas Day is actually rather painful. Normally, it's just a hangover that I have to suffer through. This year, I had to suffer through the shame of admitting that I rather liked someone. As if that wasn't enough, I also had to suffer the judgemental looks from my father when he came downstairs at 7:30am. Apparently, finding your daughter, in her Christmas onesie, fully conked out on the sofa, whilst Alan Partridge's Alpha Papa is blaring out from the telly, does not fill a father with festive pride. His blatant disappointment only increased when he discovered that I'd drunkenly eaten all of the pork pies and sausage rolls, again.

Christmas: I love you. But, unlike Wizzard, I'm ludicrously happy that you only happen once a year.

Tuesday, 15 December 2015

Sharing isn't always caring.

When I've indulged in far too much food, I can't help but feel personally victimised by Steel Panther's 'Fat Girl'. When I lost my virginity, I thankfully stopped relating to Britney Spears' 'I'm Not A Girl, Not Yet A Woman.' But in all honesty, I never thought I'd help someone relate to Little Man Tate's 'It seems a little funny, cause her sister kissed the same' lyric. It most certainly wasn't what I was expecting when I went home the other weekend.

Having said that, I hadn’t gone home with the expectation that I'd fall in literal crap. I’m 98% sure that also happened. It turns out that Vans are not the best trainers to wear when you're adventuring in a forest. Their lack of grip will not help you when you're clambering over wet moss, and you will fall into a large pile of extremely questionable matter. No matter how many times your parent tries to convince you that your elbows and knees are simply covered in mouldy tree bark, you can't ignore the distinct smell of feces. I guess shit really does happen.

So, back to the real issue; my sister and I somehow ended our Saturday night by kissing the same guy. My sister and I will often share things, but sharing a guy is definitely a few steps too far.  I'm not sure exactly how it happened, but I can't deny that it did happen. It's not like the guy can claim that it was a case of drunken misidentification, given that my sister and I look completely different. My sister looks like she could be one of those Swedish girls that guys talk about, whilst it's not uncommon for people to mistake me for Michael McIntyre. 

On reflection, introducing a game of Minesweep might have been the catalyst. I understand that some people think that consuming beverages, that have been foolishly left unattended, is quite dangerous, pretty stupid, and actually just grim. I personally prefer to believe that initiating a game of Minesweep actually makes me much more like a modern day Robin Hood. Instead of strangers drinking their own potentially drugged drink, I'll save them from that risk by consuming it for them. I guess you could say that I'm just your average Saturday night hero (you probably won't say that, but you could). 

Truthfully, I probably shouldn't have kissed the guy in the first place because I've already more than made out with his brother (it's a small town...kind of). Thankfully, it meant that I wasn't bothered when my sister came over and told me that she'd also kissed this guy . In all fairness to her, she had no idea that I'd already locked lips with him a mere ten minutes ago. Embracing the Christmas spirit of giving, I was more than happy for her to carry on exchanging her DNA with him. Although, for some bizarre reason, they'd only kiss when I turned around. It was like a much more explicit version of peekaboo. 

The three of us ended  up getting a taxi home together, because we live near each other (not because we were about to reenact a disturbing scene from an American teen movie).  When the taxi arrived at mine, I'd just assumed that my sister had followed me out of the car. I definitely did not expect to see the taxi drive off down the road, with my sister still in it. After accepting that she wasn't coming home, I saw the taxi sharply brake. My sister suddenly swung open the taxi door and ran back towards the house, with her Snape-like coat billowing behind her.  It turns out that she'd gone to kiss the guy goodbye, and the taxi driver thought he'd help the guy out by taking my sister back to his. If taxi drivers had slogans, his would definitely involve the word 'ride'. 

Despite the fact that my sister and I shared too much, and that I became too close with nature, I had an excellent time back home. In a bizzare way, it’s comforting to know that not much changes. You’ll still end up in the same shit bar on a Saturday night. The bouncers will still call you trouble as you walk by them. You’ll bump into an old friend, and it’ll be like you’ve never been away; you’ll both still aggressively dad dance, and pull unattractive faces at each other.  Your parents will still greet you in the morning with a smug ‘good afternoon', just to highlight how lazy you are. Your Nan and Grandad will still come over for Sunday dinner, and you’ll still laugh inappropriately at their unintentional innuendos (it happens a lot when your Grandad plays bowls; the word ‘ball’ is said far too often).

It turns out that leaving home really does make going back home pretty great. Hopefully, next time I won't give people another opportunity to use my surname in a punderful way, and my sister and I will go back to only sharing clothes.

Thursday, 26 November 2015

Thank you for your time today, and we won't be in contact soon.

With graduation coming up, I thought it would be a good idea to prepare for all those graduate jobs that I'm not applying for. I already have a pretty good curriculum vitae, so I thought it would be more useful to prepare for typical questions that are asked during an interview. I believe that the purpose of an interview is for a company to gain a good insight into who they are potentially hiring. Therefore, I've come up with a set of answers that provide an accurate representation of myself.

Why have you applied for this job?
I've applied for this job because I no longer receive regular income from the government, I've maxed out my student overdrafts, and I was informed that this job pays pretty well. Plus, my friend works here so I've got someone to go to lunch with.

What are your greatest strengths?
I believe that my greatest strengths are aggressive dad dancing, eating copious amounts of cake, and perfectly quoting Kevin G's 'Mathlete Rap' from Mean Girls.

Where do you see yourself in five years time?
Ideally, I'd like to be exploring the world with someone who wouldn't mind admitting to strangers that they knew me. More realistically, I'd like to have better hair, and to be the owner of a coat that isn't broken.

What motivates you?
Free food, free rum, and happiness (but my happiness mainly comes from free food and rum).

What makes you a good team member?
I can communicate effectively, which I regularly demonstrate by forcing my friends to play Taboo with me.
I'm prepared to sacrifice being known as the 'star player' in order to benefit the whole team, which I recently demonstrated by offering to be on the bottom layer of a human pyramid.
Also, I'm prepared to step out of my comfort zone for the benefit of my entire team. Despite finding everything about tuna absolutely disgusting, I ate three spoons of it just so my team would win a drinking game. Honestly, it was traumastising. In fact, the memory of having to fish those dry, tuna flakes out from behind my wisdom teeth, with my own tongue, is so traumasting that I often still suffer sweat-inducing flashbacks.

Can you give us an example of when you showed resilience?
I was watching Jamie T last summer, and I was having simply the best time. Unfortuntately, I became the victim of someone's piss in a cup. What's more unfortunate is that the piss hit my face just as I'd started to sing along rather enthusiastically. Yes, the piss landed directly into my mouth. Before I knew what had actually happened, I was swallowing. I know for definite that it was piss, and not drink, because it was warm. It was so very warm.
Instead of letting someone's potentially disease riddled piss ruin Jamie T for me, I simply decided to accept what had happened, and carry on. That, I personally believe, is true resilience.

Can you give us an example of when you've had to use your initiative?
Back when I was in school, some friends were planning to perform The Darkness' 'I Believe in a Thing Called Love', but their lead singer had pulled out. For a fiver, I said I would do it (it's actually depressing how much I'd still do for a fiver). It hadn't occurred to me that a lead singer normally has to know all of the words to their own song, so I obviously didn't make an effort to learn the lyrics. This became a bit of an issue when I was faced with a sea of disappointed teachers and parents. Apparently, humming along to the music was not fooling any of them. Using my initiative, I decided to distract the crowd by aggressively two-stepping and wind-milling (it was back in the days of MySpace). If I remember correctly, I closed the show by swinging the blonde wig that I'd been wearing around my head as if, instead of publicly humiliating myself, I'd just headlined Glastonbury.
Using my initiative effectively meant that the crowd had become so distracted that they'd totally forgot that I didn't know any of the lyrics, apart from 'touching meeee, touching youuuuuu.' Although, I sincerely doubt that the music teacher ever forgot how I had 'spoilt' her concert that had originally aimed to celebrate talented and gifted musicians.

Finally, what can you do for us that other candidates can't?
I think it's unlikely that another candidate would be able to fit thirty two pickled onions into their mouth, or completely bend their thumb backwards. Fortunately for you, I can do both of these things.

Granted, these answers might not have employers fighting over me, but at least I'd never be faced with the fear that I'd over sold myself in the interview. Although, that is mainly because no one would ever hire me, unless they needed to fill some bizarre, and unheard of, 'pity the unemployable' quota.

Tuesday, 3 November 2015

How many times do you have to kiss someone before they can call you the c bomb?

Apparently, it's just the once.

I received my first piece of hate mail last week. Honestly, and surprisingly, it was the most offensive thing a stranger has ever said to me. Fortunately I grew up in an environment where causing offensive wasn't a taboo, even if it did often cause tears (of laughter). This means that I have pretty thick skin. Some might say it's too thick, especially my sister who is often forced into giving me a pedicure.

As you can see, it was pretty aggressive. Concerningly, it was actually the fact that he used 'n' instead of 'and' that I found most offensive. Don't worry, I'm aware that I'd probably have more friends if I stopped being such a grammar Nazi, but I firmly believe in quality over quantity.

Naturally, my first reaction was to seek reassurance from my best friend. Thankfully, she did assure me that, even though I might act terribly, I'm not actually terrible. With that, I decided to accept this 'gentleman's' feedback and move on. Although, I am refusing to acknowledge the fact that he called me fat (which was a low blow). I was actually skinny once (honestly), but it only lasted for a month because I quickly realised that in order to stay skinny you have to stop eating mince pies for breakfast, and that's not the kind of world I want to live in. 

I could easily write a bitter and defensive post, but I don't think I could ever write anything quite as eloquent as Frankee's 'Fuck You Right Back'. Also, I sincerely doubt that a defensive blog post would ever gain enough attention to pay off my student debt, and I genuinely believe that being bitter would be less attractive than when I managed to get my teeth stuck in an entire slab of steak. Having to explain that it was actually an animal's blood on my leg, not period, was not how I had originally imagined that barbecue going. Plus, even though I do often ramble, I doubt that I could stretch 'we only kissed' into even one short paragraph. Although, when you really think about it, that is basically how the Killers' 'Mr. Brightside' begins and it worked out pretty well for them.

Despite not wanting to rant, I will say that I don't think this guy was very kind. Whilst I do apologise for accidentally (and definitely not maliciously) leading him on, I do believe that there really wasn't a need for his criticism to be so brutal. I don't regret a lot in my life. I don't even regret taking a picture of my boobs in an empty Big Mac box and sending it to all of my friends (seriously, no one was safe from seeing it). However, I do regret every single time that I've been unkind. In my opinion, being kind is more important than most things in life (cake obviously still comes first).

Being kind, I believe, does not necessarily mean that you have to be nice. In fact, I find that I struggle to be kind when I'd rather be nice to someone than be honest with them. Through being dishonest with people (and sometimes with myself), an old friendship turned very sour and I royally fucked up (with quite a few people) by refusing to admit that I'd fallen for one of my closet friends. Yes, I'm aware that my love life is like a rom-com that would've gone straight to the 'bargain DVD' bin. I even doubt that it would ever be shown on channel 5.

This summer, I met a guy who I genuinely disliked for a while (mainly because he was a grumpy bastard who wouldn't let me gatecrash his camping trips), but I did learn a lot from him; he was honest. This guy never pretended to be my friend, but he didn't hesitate to cover my work for me so I could lie on the bathroom floor and cry whilst suffering a horrendous hangover (don't drink free whiskey shots and expect to be fresh for a 6am start). That morning, he showed true kindness and compassion. Eventually, by being honest with him too (which may have been alcohol induced), I'd like to think we're friends now, and I'm glad.

Whilst this guy's hate mail was extremely horrid (and I'm frankly quite pleased that he doesn't know where I live), I do believe he may have done me a favour. Although I'll never condone speaking to someone in such a disgusting manner, ignorance isn't bliss (unless you're trying to convince me that Andrew Garfield and I will never be a thing). Now I know for definite that I do need to ensure that I aim to be kind, rather than nice.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still going to laugh directly in your face if you fall over, and I'll probably always be the type of person that finds it hilarious to purposefully drive too fast through puddles. I might aim to be kind, but they'll always be a part of me that's bastard enough to commit a 'splash by'.

Sunday, 25 October 2015

A medical affirmation, a human pyramid, and a lot of balls.

A while ago, my friend and I bought tickets to see the Coasts’ gig in Manchester. My friend is a medical student and she realised that her medical affirmation was unfortunately on the same night. Apparently, a medical affirmation is quite important because it provides the opportunity for medical students to confirm that they won’t abuse their position by using a cadaver as an effective Halloween prop. Although I personally believe that you should never say never, which is probably why it’s an extremely good thing that I’ll never be a doctor. Despite it being quite a significant event, my friend and I both thought it would be a great idea if I tagged along so we could easily head to the gig together afterwards.

Ridiculously, gate-crashing a medical affirmation was a lot easier than the time that I gate-crashed a 10km charity run. It only became slightly awkward when I found myself to be confronted with a rather inquisitive lecturer. Thankfully, the intention of his questions seemed purely to learn more about a medical student’s social experience and luckily, I seem to be quite talented at blagging (which is definitely a synonym for bullshitting). Being able to confidently blag is certainly how I’ve managed to succeed in several interviews (my employers always end up severely disappointed when they realise I have no managerial experience and that I can’t speak fluent mandarin). It’s also how I managed to convince my friends at school that my brother was indeed the Asian boy sat on the toilet in the ‘you can do it too, with kandoo’ advert. I think my friends are still waiting for his autograph.
After my friend and I consumed far too much of the free wine, it was time to take the medical affirmation. For some reason, I seemed to take the affirmation more seriously than any of the genuine medical students. That might’ve been because I didn’t want to arouse suspicions, or it could’ve been because it was the closest I’ll ever be to becoming Christina Yang (the total boss bitch heart surgeon from Grey’s Anatomy).

Once we had all confirmed that we would strive to equip ourselves with the academic knowledge, skills and attributes that are needed to become excellent doctors, the buffet opened. My friend and I had tactically positioned ourselves close to the plates so that we could have first dibs. Our winter bulking has obviously started early.
When everyone had finished eating, each individual learning group seemed to want to take a group picture. Not being ones to follow the crowd (and because we’re total losers), my friend and I thought that her group should take a photo of them doing a human pyramid. Somehow, I ended up in the picture too. I suspect it’s because I was larger than most of the group and they needed my size for the bottom layer. Bizarrely, it was the second time in two days that I was involved in a human pyramid with people I had just met. I really should stop being so comfortable with getting on my knees in an attempt to make friends.

My friend and I took the closing down of the buffet as our sign that we should leave. Although we only left after we’d managed to convince a poor guy to take a platter of risotto balls home on our behalf. Even I know that we couldn’t have gone out carrying a platter of balls.
We got to the gig as the Hunna’s were playing, who I’d never heard of but were actually really good. I’ve often been told that going to a gig up north is a lot more fun because people tend to get more involved. Whoever told me that was wrong. It quickly became apparent that the crowd did not like to dance, or even remotely look like they were enjoying themselves. I do understand that people probably shouldn’t dance as ridiculously as I do. This is especially true given that people probably thought that my friend was recording my  dance moves in an attempt to gain evidence, so that a court would rule that I should have to remain inside at all times. I don’t understand why people actually pay to see a band, and make the effort to stand near the front, only to make it clear that they’re not enjoying themselves. I actually think it’s quite rude. Being British, I believe that being rude is a lot worse than pretending to be a medical student in order to eat free food and drink free wine.

Even though I look more like the girl from the Exorcist when I dance, it did actually somehow attract a guy. I’m obviously assuming that he has a condition that limits his ability to see clearly. He hung out with my friend and I whilst we flaunted what our mothers gave us and fan-girled over the Coasts’ lead singer. When the gig was over, the guy even came with us to the next bar.
On our way to another bar, we came across a statue which I clearly had to climb. This was ridiculous because I am twenty four years old now and should not find it amusing to climb statues. It was also ridiculous because I had spent a good chunk of my evening complaining that I’d broken my foot (I’ve taken a medical affirmation so I can definitely self-diagnose accurately now). This was when it should’ve been clear to me that I would not have gotten along with this guy long-term because instead of mocking me (like my friend was actively doing), he only showed concern for my foot. What a bastard.

In the next bar, my friend left me with the guy whilst she conned the bartender into giving her a free shot of absinthe (I approve of her priorities). Naturally, I made out with the guy to prevent having to actually talk to him. Although I think I’ve finally realised that, as I’ve gotten older, I now only enjoy making out with people if I actually fancy them. This realisation is more upsetting than the fact that someone recently ruined the final of the Great British Bake Off for me.
As well as gaining a free shot, my friend had convinced the bartender to conduct an impromptu interview with me (because I’m poor and I need to actually pay her rent). He asked me to confirm what goes into three different cocktails. Even though I’d spent the summer making (and drinking) cocktails, I somehow could only think of the euphemism ‘how’s your father?’ when he asked me to confirm the ingredients for an old fashioned. I also spent a lot of time telling him that he’s clearly a bartender, not the manager, and that he should stop trying to mug me off. According to my friend, he was definitely the manager and could’ve hired me.  Needless to say, he didn’t offer me a job.
Unemployed and slightly more inebriated, my friend and I parted from the guy we’d met and headed to one more bar. This bar provided another excellent opportunity to throw invasive dancing shapes, so I obviously loved it. Surprisingly, another guy seemed to actually not be totally put off by my dance moves. Either he also had a secret sight condition (which could’ve been alcohol induced), or I might actually be more socially acceptable in Manchester.  
Before I knew it, it was the next day and I was walking through Manchester with a platter of risotto balls that I'd picked up from a very disgruntled medical student. Honestly, they were the only balls that I was really interested in from that night.