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.

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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.