Oh Fresher’s Week. The gateway to a year of university life, an opportunity to blow off steam before the hard work begins or, in my case, get horrifically drunk to mask the fact I was shitting myself with nerves and end up not being able to look half of Lafrowda in the eye.
In comparison to how my first year at uni would turn out, my Fresher’s Week was relatively tame, there were no fractured eyebrow bones or impromptu nights out in Plymouth, yet there are still some patchy memories I can reminisce over. So, like many naïve fresh, I began my first week of university at the Lemon Grove. Enticed in with promises that it was THE place to be, guaranteed to be the biggest event in Exeter for the next decade. Of course it wasn’t. It was some inflatables from Poundland, a bit of glow paint, and two decrepit members of S Club 7.
Nonetheless, I staggered my way up the stairs, knocked back five shots and promptly christened the Lemmy with my Apple Sourz tinted vomit. Dressed in nothing but a skirt, bra, and pyjama shirt (there were multiple nip slips SHAME), I set off on my quest to find the hallowed smoking area – which was actually a patch of gravel. After spending at least an hour sat there chain smoking and chatting the purest shite to strangers, I set off home to Birks Grange, which unfortunately for me looks a lot like Lafrowda. I wandered past the flat blocks for fourty minutes, convinced I’d found the magic shortcut that took you from Cornwall House to Birks in 0.2 seconds, until eventually bumping into an acquaintance from a Welsh Society social and spending a further hour sat in their flat corridor chatting, you guessed it, more shite.
The Lemon Grove: some inflatables from Poundland, a bit of glow paint, and two decrepit members of S Club 7
Once more I set off to find Birks, stumbling on to a forest path which of course to me meant certain death. Clawing my way out of the trees Bear Grylls style, I found Amory Moot and after an exhausting climb up the first part of Forum Hill, I napped outside the Forum before dashing up the final slope and across to Birks to the sweet sound of a Domino’s delivery.
Needless to say I learned a lesson that night – but just to make sure I had enough cash for the Lemmy. Vomit, skimpy clothing, and wandering still remain to be worked on.
The Ghosts of Freshers Past
Oh Fresher’s Week. The gateway to a year of university life, an opportunity to blow off steam before the hard work begins or, in my case, get horrifically drunk to mask the fact I was shitting myself with nerves and end up not being able to look half of Lafrowda in the eye.
In comparison to how my first year at uni would turn out, my Fresher’s Week was relatively tame, there were no fractured eyebrow bones or impromptu nights out in Plymouth, yet there are still some patchy memories I can reminisce over. So, like many naïve fresh, I began my first week of university at the Lemon Grove. Enticed in with promises that it was THE place to be, guaranteed to be the biggest event in Exeter for the next decade. Of course it wasn’t. It was some inflatables from Poundland, a bit of glow paint, and two decrepit members of S Club 7.
Nonetheless, I staggered my way up the stairs, knocked back five shots and promptly christened the Lemmy with my Apple Sourz tinted vomit. Dressed in nothing but a skirt, bra, and pyjama shirt (there were multiple nip slips SHAME), I set off on my quest to find the hallowed smoking area – which was actually a patch of gravel. After spending at least an hour sat there chain smoking and chatting the purest shite to strangers, I set off home to Birks Grange, which unfortunately for me looks a lot like Lafrowda. I wandered past the flat blocks for fourty minutes, convinced I’d found the magic shortcut that took you from Cornwall House to Birks in 0.2 seconds, until eventually bumping into an acquaintance from a Welsh Society social and spending a further hour sat in their flat corridor chatting, you guessed it, more shite.
Once more I set off to find Birks, stumbling on to a forest path which of course to me meant certain death. Clawing my way out of the trees Bear Grylls style, I found Amory Moot and after an exhausting climb up the first part of Forum Hill, I napped outside the Forum before dashing up the final slope and across to Birks to the sweet sound of a Domino’s delivery.
Needless to say I learned a lesson that night – but just to make sure I had enough cash for the Lemmy. Vomit, skimpy clothing, and wandering still remain to be worked on.
Alicia Rees
Great Expectations
Debunking the hangover cure
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