What's It All About Alfie?
I'm sitting on a bus, with freshly showered hair, on a discounted fare
all because I am a third level student. My time in UCC has been the
best, most enlightening and emotional time of my life (a little
Dawson's Creek detour has not done my generation any harm it would
seem). The only piece of advice I can issue is the same that was
divulged to me in the Western Star (the place to be back in the day)
during Fresher's Week. The best thing to do in this fish bowl of
anonymity is: Don't be afraid to ask for help.
Mammy is no longer found at the school gates at 3pm, dinner will no
longer appear magically on the table miraculously (this does not have
to be a disaster, might I just recommend the highly successful pasta
option- a food group all of its own its versatility alone will have
you never going without), the washing will pile up and socks will
disappear into the wide unknown, but all of this is entirely
manageable. I believe the "silver spoon" society is no longer the
asset it was once thought to be. By the end of week one you will have
a domesticated ritual that could rival Martha Stewart (in between her
jail time, har har har)
Alternatively you could just take it all in your stride, never wash
and only orange and purple foods. This would make you one of the
popular kids in the college experience, the one I would recommend that
the rest of us steer clear of and never make eye contact with.
On campus itself relax into the atmosphere. College is a lone
experience where it is justified and welcomed to sit reading alone in
the student center or the ORB (O'Rahilly Building) Don't expect any
lecturer to remember you! This is one thing that took me a good six
weeks to get used to. I believed that because I asked questions and
looked remotely interested in the lecture that my face would become
engraved in their minds and therefore saying hello to them in Java
City would lead onto a fantastically academic conversation about the
mating habits of the sea eagle. This did not happen, in fact, the
fantastical scenario in my head is so far from the confused
acknowledged nod I got from one lecturer that I chose never to salute
someone again.
Experience is the outright purpose of our College years. You will
travel, drink more than you thought biological capable of you, flirt
with the unknown (this experience is in direct association to the
drinking thing) and you will make friends, who in the most vomit
inducing of ways will become your family. They will see you at your
best and your worst (3am curled up in the foetal position at the end
of their bed rocking back and forth declaring that the MacDonalds
Eurosaver menus is a conspiracy created by the government). Treat them
as carefully as you can, to ensure your "Eurosaver" story never
becomes public.
Thursday
Last Woman Standing
I am no Dara O’ Briain (thankfully); however I do believe I have the capacity to make someone laugh. Well, at least just as much as a guy. The penis does not automatically make a person humorous- if that were the case male Arts students would see a lot more action (all low blows are brought to you courtesy of a five hour shift in an un air conditioned Boole Basement).
Have you ever heard the word hysterical and wondered where it was derived from? Well let me tell you- I sat dazed in Women and Literature last year waiting for someone to start up about why women are better than stupid boys when the lecturer wrote the word up on a white board.
“Hysterical” she shrilled “comes from the word hysterectomy”. If you were also in that class I was the person who muttered; “Ah woman- I was about to eat this sandwich”. She went on to explain. Apparently when women go a little “mental” it was believed back in the stone age (you know, the 70’s) that their womb had detached itself from their…womb home and all that bashing around the place drove them mad. It’s a lovely image. So why is it then that the word hysterical is associated with us? I would take hysterical to mean something was rather amusing. But if I have learnt anything this week it is that guys around campus at least, believe that women are not funny.
So, the question of the week is WHY aren’t women funny? See, a friend (I use the term loosely) of mine made a sweeping generalised statement in the Main Restaurant (while enjoying the free tea and coffee- cheers Kylemore) that women are just not funny. He said it clear and concise as if this were simple fact and because I myself possessed ovaries may not have understood him clearly. He demanded I list funny women with the stipulation that they had to be funny in a situation that did not make them look stupid.
This was my chance to defend my fairer sex, the chance to prove women are hilarious and men are just things we keep around for the cold weather. Unfortunately this was not to be the case. I muster up all the thought in my mind and I… choke. No woman came to mind. This tragic turn of events has led me to think that we are in trouble.
If men start to think of they are in fact funny the world as we know it could end. The images of them sipping sherry, smoking cigars and congratulating themselves on being masters of humour will haunt my dreams. From now on I plan to start every conversation with “So this Rabbi walks into a bar”. To do my bit for the cause.
I am no Dara O’ Briain (thankfully); however I do believe I have the capacity to make someone laugh. Well, at least just as much as a guy. The penis does not automatically make a person humorous- if that were the case male Arts students would see a lot more action (all low blows are brought to you courtesy of a five hour shift in an un air conditioned Boole Basement).
Have you ever heard the word hysterical and wondered where it was derived from? Well let me tell you- I sat dazed in Women and Literature last year waiting for someone to start up about why women are better than stupid boys when the lecturer wrote the word up on a white board.
“Hysterical” she shrilled “comes from the word hysterectomy”. If you were also in that class I was the person who muttered; “Ah woman- I was about to eat this sandwich”. She went on to explain. Apparently when women go a little “mental” it was believed back in the stone age (you know, the 70’s) that their womb had detached itself from their…womb home and all that bashing around the place drove them mad. It’s a lovely image. So why is it then that the word hysterical is associated with us? I would take hysterical to mean something was rather amusing. But if I have learnt anything this week it is that guys around campus at least, believe that women are not funny.
So, the question of the week is WHY aren’t women funny? See, a friend (I use the term loosely) of mine made a sweeping generalised statement in the Main Restaurant (while enjoying the free tea and coffee- cheers Kylemore) that women are just not funny. He said it clear and concise as if this were simple fact and because I myself possessed ovaries may not have understood him clearly. He demanded I list funny women with the stipulation that they had to be funny in a situation that did not make them look stupid.
This was my chance to defend my fairer sex, the chance to prove women are hilarious and men are just things we keep around for the cold weather. Unfortunately this was not to be the case. I muster up all the thought in my mind and I… choke. No woman came to mind. This tragic turn of events has led me to think that we are in trouble.
If men start to think of they are in fact funny the world as we know it could end. The images of them sipping sherry, smoking cigars and congratulating themselves on being masters of humour will haunt my dreams. From now on I plan to start every conversation with “So this Rabbi walks into a bar”. To do my bit for the cause.
When all else fails send in the heavy artillery.
This last fortnight has led me to question if any kind of superpower could in fact exist. I have lost my “Very Best of the Corrs” cd, my hair straightening device is making it all curl upwards in a very eighties Molly Ringwald situation that I seem to be losing and my broken laptop started working again just as I accept the bill for the new one. In other words things really are going my way. If they were going any better I might suggest they were going in the opposite direction.
I have never claimed to be in any way graceful- 13 years of Irish dancing has at least taught me that much. But I do believe I can save myself from the majority of embarrassing clumsiness that I could befall. Last week was obviously my bad grace week. I walk through campus like everyone else, head phones in, head down, bag on back and desperately trying to stay upright on those devil incarnate red tiles that have been generously rooted through our campus.
I am similar to Pac Man in my approach to a daily route to and from the Student Centre, trying with all my might to steer clear of the red tiles (consider them to be those nasty blue blobs in the screen that try and kill Pac Man when all he wants to do is eat the yellow dots of goodness). I brace myself for my plot, I stage my coup and then dash (albeit carefully) through the red death that is campus. I will ignore anyone I know during this mission,, my mother could be sprawled out on the tiles selling her body to get the youngest sibling through college and I will not stop. I need to get from A to B without splattering.
Last week, things didn’t go according to the coup. I was distracted, I forgot myself and this led to me, ass first outside the Boole. People stifled their sniggers, some shook their heads as the resumed walking cautiously in the other direction and others stood, helpfully, and stared at the plight in which I found myself in. I gain composure- after swearing like a sailor on leave, and up I get. I walked right into that Boole, head help high, posterior throbbing.
However that was not to be the end of it. This evening as I walked to work listening to one young Elle Fitzgerald muse about some Fever on my iPod, I lost my footing manoeuvring those death-trap steps we proudly negate daily. Knowing full well how this was going to end I tried to compose myself, you know, to get some sort of marking upon dismount. I landed on same ASSet, thankfully different people around to judge. It was a Friday evening therefore the student population on campus consisted of mature students.
I propose a constructive protest in the most literal sense. I will supply the hardware appropriate for such a project and then we will dig up the red tiles. We will dig them up in a similar fashion to the dismemberment of the Berlin Wall and then we will march, we will march to Cork Port and there we will build a red tiled haven for the homeless. Everybody wins and I can wear converse to college.
This last fortnight has led me to question if any kind of superpower could in fact exist. I have lost my “Very Best of the Corrs” cd, my hair straightening device is making it all curl upwards in a very eighties Molly Ringwald situation that I seem to be losing and my broken laptop started working again just as I accept the bill for the new one. In other words things really are going my way. If they were going any better I might suggest they were going in the opposite direction.
I have never claimed to be in any way graceful- 13 years of Irish dancing has at least taught me that much. But I do believe I can save myself from the majority of embarrassing clumsiness that I could befall. Last week was obviously my bad grace week. I walk through campus like everyone else, head phones in, head down, bag on back and desperately trying to stay upright on those devil incarnate red tiles that have been generously rooted through our campus.
I am similar to Pac Man in my approach to a daily route to and from the Student Centre, trying with all my might to steer clear of the red tiles (consider them to be those nasty blue blobs in the screen that try and kill Pac Man when all he wants to do is eat the yellow dots of goodness). I brace myself for my plot, I stage my coup and then dash (albeit carefully) through the red death that is campus. I will ignore anyone I know during this mission,, my mother could be sprawled out on the tiles selling her body to get the youngest sibling through college and I will not stop. I need to get from A to B without splattering.
Last week, things didn’t go according to the coup. I was distracted, I forgot myself and this led to me, ass first outside the Boole. People stifled their sniggers, some shook their heads as the resumed walking cautiously in the other direction and others stood, helpfully, and stared at the plight in which I found myself in. I gain composure- after swearing like a sailor on leave, and up I get. I walked right into that Boole, head help high, posterior throbbing.
However that was not to be the end of it. This evening as I walked to work listening to one young Elle Fitzgerald muse about some Fever on my iPod, I lost my footing manoeuvring those death-trap steps we proudly negate daily. Knowing full well how this was going to end I tried to compose myself, you know, to get some sort of marking upon dismount. I landed on same ASSet, thankfully different people around to judge. It was a Friday evening therefore the student population on campus consisted of mature students.
I propose a constructive protest in the most literal sense. I will supply the hardware appropriate for such a project and then we will dig up the red tiles. We will dig them up in a similar fashion to the dismemberment of the Berlin Wall and then we will march, we will march to Cork Port and there we will build a red tiled haven for the homeless. Everybody wins and I can wear converse to college.
Is this seat taken?
It is a fair assessment to make that I have a very low tolerance for those people inhabiting my world. I find them needless. I would prefer if people who possess the “messiah” complex keep it to themselves so I do not have to hear about it. I am the mistress of my own universe, I just don’t brag about it. This goes without saying Mr. Man with his shiny watch, new phone with annoying ringtone and over compensating briefcase that has just sat down beside me in the bus as I write this is a prime candidate and example of my point.
He believes himself to be largely more important than the rest of the mere mortals on the public transport system that we are vacated at the moment, he knows how much room he has, like the rest of us he has assessed it upon arrival and he has found it worthy. But elbow room will always be a priority for Mr. Universe and therefore he will have to hit me at least three possibly four times if I count the first minor infraction of his chicken arms invading my space. He then proceeds to place his brief case to his left on the floor. Which is, inconveniently where my feet happen to be connected to the rest of my body- I have always been keenly awkward like that. He sighs repeatedly as some kind of silent complaint towards the situation he finds himself in. He then realises that there are over head compartments above him and that he can avail of such novelties. He stands up and we are now in the face to crotch proximity.
Personally, this did nothing for me. Professionally it made me note that his belt was brown and his trousers were black. Now I realised what kind of person I was dealing with. This was a power driven man in the corporate world who was clearly being dressed by mammy. I smile, and realised that I have been staring at his manly region for more than the adequate evaluation. I replace the smile with a grimace, and turn my eyes back towards the floor in the hope that this gesture alone will warrant him to remain silent for the journey.
I needn't have worried. My counter- part passenger had no intention of speaking to me in the this journey, he did however have every intention of ringing every contact in his phone and discussing in
detail the market value of something or other, the shite present he had gotten from his parents for his birthday (which surprisingly enough was not the aforementioned belt) and the girl from the other
night. This leads me to think all men are filth and have no idea how ridiculous they sound whilst describing "indiscretions". Courtesy of Bus Eireann I found myself with an editorial topic, a new nemesis and countless tongue biting moments.
The worst thing is yet to come. By the time my seat companion had found himself comfortable it was my turn to start packing up my belongings and make a swift departure. He had decided to make it difficult for me, which was very clear. Instead of actually standing up to let me pass he decided to slide his legs out onto the aisle and look at me expectantly. I stared back, waiting for his gentleman ass to stand up. This was not going to happen. I asked politely (as polite as I could) if he wouldn’t mind moving to which he responded with a silent shuffle. From now on I walk.
It is a fair assessment to make that I have a very low tolerance for those people inhabiting my world. I find them needless. I would prefer if people who possess the “messiah” complex keep it to themselves so I do not have to hear about it. I am the mistress of my own universe, I just don’t brag about it. This goes without saying Mr. Man with his shiny watch, new phone with annoying ringtone and over compensating briefcase that has just sat down beside me in the bus as I write this is a prime candidate and example of my point.
He believes himself to be largely more important than the rest of the mere mortals on the public transport system that we are vacated at the moment, he knows how much room he has, like the rest of us he has assessed it upon arrival and he has found it worthy. But elbow room will always be a priority for Mr. Universe and therefore he will have to hit me at least three possibly four times if I count the first minor infraction of his chicken arms invading my space. He then proceeds to place his brief case to his left on the floor. Which is, inconveniently where my feet happen to be connected to the rest of my body- I have always been keenly awkward like that. He sighs repeatedly as some kind of silent complaint towards the situation he finds himself in. He then realises that there are over head compartments above him and that he can avail of such novelties. He stands up and we are now in the face to crotch proximity.
Personally, this did nothing for me. Professionally it made me note that his belt was brown and his trousers were black. Now I realised what kind of person I was dealing with. This was a power driven man in the corporate world who was clearly being dressed by mammy. I smile, and realised that I have been staring at his manly region for more than the adequate evaluation. I replace the smile with a grimace, and turn my eyes back towards the floor in the hope that this gesture alone will warrant him to remain silent for the journey.
I needn't have worried. My counter- part passenger had no intention of speaking to me in the this journey, he did however have every intention of ringing every contact in his phone and discussing in
detail the market value of something or other, the shite present he had gotten from his parents for his birthday (which surprisingly enough was not the aforementioned belt) and the girl from the other
night. This leads me to think all men are filth and have no idea how ridiculous they sound whilst describing "indiscretions". Courtesy of Bus Eireann I found myself with an editorial topic, a new nemesis and countless tongue biting moments.
The worst thing is yet to come. By the time my seat companion had found himself comfortable it was my turn to start packing up my belongings and make a swift departure. He had decided to make it difficult for me, which was very clear. Instead of actually standing up to let me pass he decided to slide his legs out onto the aisle and look at me expectantly. I stared back, waiting for his gentleman ass to stand up. This was not going to happen. I asked politely (as polite as I could) if he wouldn’t mind moving to which he responded with a silent shuffle. From now on I walk.
Lock Stock and lots of broken furniture.
Once Upon a Time there was a final year student who thought it would be a laugh to take on too much. She was not a princess, she was not wealthy, she did not have an evil step mother and she certainly did not possess magic powers to help her overpower the plight of her existence. This girl merely survived due to a financial grant, Tesco Value products and bi monthly visits home to the parental unit grounds of Waterford.
This girl realises that she refers to herself in the third person and that her fairytale is probably pointless and more of a “how not to exist” pamphlet than an actual fable. But she has been taught some lessons this last fortnight and she refuses to remain silent about said revelations.
The fairytale life in Cork is fulfilling enough without screaming out overly excessive expectations. Therefore one should not be too concerned by the mediocrity of our intellectual gatherings.
There is a certain etiquette one must maintain whilst socialising at a house party. Pants must remain on ones person, alcohol should only be consumed from the bottles in which it was intended for and no-one should ever use pizza as a weapon. These are just some mere mortal examples of what one should not have to endure while standing in a tight (well maintained) corridor.
Pants must remain on ones person, alcohol should only be consumed from the bottles in which it was intended for and no-one should ever use pizza as a weapon.
The ideology behind a house party in this country is because we are all far too into our drunkard existence to abide by such ridiculous rules as “closing time” in a public house. Therefore we must go to an off license, sneak the drink into said taverns, drink copiously and marvel at our own stealth at the fact that we have managed to hide all our alcohol under that scarf. Bear in mind we are in fact screaming at the top of our lungs and every other person in the bar including the owner is well aware that Stella Artois is not a clothing brand, now is a cardboard box of Centra “Horse Hair” wine some kind of retro handbag.
Surviving a house party in college is in fact half the battle. The other half is finding your keys, coat and phone at the end of the evening/start of the morning and mastering the idea of stairs before making the three hour drunken hike up the road to your abode. People will be strewn around you, those who weren’t so lucky. They didn’t make it through the night but their contorted facial features will convey that it had all been worth it.
As Britney Spears’ Gimme More throngs through the laptop speakers the final year student realises that she has said too much. Her story regarding house parties could in fact be deemed criminal and to an extent damaging to those she socialises with- acquaintances’, no journalist has a friend, bar their mother. The moral of every fairy tale is to leave Jack Daniels where you found him, on the shelf.
Once Upon a Time there was a final year student who thought it would be a laugh to take on too much. She was not a princess, she was not wealthy, she did not have an evil step mother and she certainly did not possess magic powers to help her overpower the plight of her existence. This girl merely survived due to a financial grant, Tesco Value products and bi monthly visits home to the parental unit grounds of Waterford.
This girl realises that she refers to herself in the third person and that her fairytale is probably pointless and more of a “how not to exist” pamphlet than an actual fable. But she has been taught some lessons this last fortnight and she refuses to remain silent about said revelations.
The fairytale life in Cork is fulfilling enough without screaming out overly excessive expectations. Therefore one should not be too concerned by the mediocrity of our intellectual gatherings.
There is a certain etiquette one must maintain whilst socialising at a house party. Pants must remain on ones person, alcohol should only be consumed from the bottles in which it was intended for and no-one should ever use pizza as a weapon. These are just some mere mortal examples of what one should not have to endure while standing in a tight (well maintained) corridor.
Pants must remain on ones person, alcohol should only be consumed from the bottles in which it was intended for and no-one should ever use pizza as a weapon.
The ideology behind a house party in this country is because we are all far too into our drunkard existence to abide by such ridiculous rules as “closing time” in a public house. Therefore we must go to an off license, sneak the drink into said taverns, drink copiously and marvel at our own stealth at the fact that we have managed to hide all our alcohol under that scarf. Bear in mind we are in fact screaming at the top of our lungs and every other person in the bar including the owner is well aware that Stella Artois is not a clothing brand, now is a cardboard box of Centra “Horse Hair” wine some kind of retro handbag.
Surviving a house party in college is in fact half the battle. The other half is finding your keys, coat and phone at the end of the evening/start of the morning and mastering the idea of stairs before making the three hour drunken hike up the road to your abode. People will be strewn around you, those who weren’t so lucky. They didn’t make it through the night but their contorted facial features will convey that it had all been worth it.
As Britney Spears’ Gimme More throngs through the laptop speakers the final year student realises that she has said too much. Her story regarding house parties could in fact be deemed criminal and to an extent damaging to those she socialises with- acquaintances’, no journalist has a friend, bar their mother. The moral of every fairy tale is to leave Jack Daniels where you found him, on the shelf.
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