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The Meaning Of Life From A Student Point Of View
University! Now there is an institution! I’ve always said that if anyone could model a society based on university values, they could count on me. This would mean that the vast majority of the population didn’t need to work much, wouldn’t get paid much, but would be fed regularly and allowed to spend half their time in bars buying as much half-price beer as they could drink in one night. Cannabis and other hallucinatory aids would be legal and freely available as optional extras for those with more creative tendencies, while the idea of any fixed moral standards would be abandoned in favor of “A little of what you fancy does you good!” And if something were to happen to threaten this idyll of perfection, these uni-citizens, guardians of the world’s knowledge, would be perfectly within their rights to carry banners and march in protest. The national anthem would have to be something by Motorhead.
What am I saying here? I guess I’m in favor of a more romantic view of life, more “fueled by love” than “driven by greed”. There are serious differences between the two, the one that fills our hearts with warmth and security, the other dangerous and devouring, although no two people can agree which is which. For my part, I couldn’t believe my luck. The first day at Badock Hall was like Nirvana, a spiritual existence of pure ecstasy. Out of four hundred odd students, more than half were available single women. It was the perfect opportunity for some greedy love.
I was so happy I couldn’t help but laugh as I unpacked into one of the four hundred individual bedroom units I’d been assigned with views of green, sloping gardens and fertile trees. The room was small, just big enough to hold a single bed and a table, but it was all I needed. I laughed because I had my car. There I was in the parking lot, my maroon Marina, a little dented but proud, with her vinyl back seat polished and waiting.
Unlike school, there were no feelings of being in the wrong time zone in Bristol. In fact, everything was modern, liberal and fair. The attitude of the teachers surprised us after the attention we received at school, as they practically ignored us. They said their piece, in lectures and tutorials, maybe two or three times a week, then they left us. It depended on us.
The morning after the Fresher’s Party I stayed in bed until twelve, then panicked when I realized I’d missed a lecture. But then I remembered that this was not Trollope’s. Nothing happened here, no one noticed if you disappeared, so I went back to bed. It was very fair. We’ve been given access to the best education, the best brains, and it’s up to us whether we take advantage of it or not.
Fresher’s Week was a chance to meet veteran students and join the various clubs and societies they had dreamed up in a moment of idleness, a strange array of activities and time-consuming nonsense that in my mind didn’t even match Rita’s for ten minutes. the Stripper, and until it was over we could not attend to the more serious business of learning. Between lectures and tutorials, which in total took up about twelve hours a week, our time was ours, which sounded great, but the importance of self-discipline soon became apparent.
Most of the time at lunch I found myself in the giant refectory, where you could get a decent meal for less than a kilo. It stood next to the Wills Memorial Building, the focal point of the university, a large neo-Gothic structure at the top of Park Street that looked like a cathedral and built by the wealthy Wills family, tobacco magnates, at the turn of the century. Students walked up and down the massive lobby stairs all day long, going to and from classes, but despite the crowds, I found myself alone a lot in the early days as everyone had lectures at different times and in different buildings around town. .
At first I bumped into my brother Mario and some of his friends from the Law department. He was in his third year and about to graduate. It was obvious that for the first time in his life he felt superior to me. Oxford had slipped through my fingers and I was a sad freshman at his old university. He was fine with me passing the odd comment, but it was clear he had no intention of including me in his circle, which was fine with me. I wanted to be free to explore and was happy not to have my older brother and his friends breathing down my neck.
The car became popular with me very quickly. At the end of each day there were four or five fellow long-haired Badockians casually wandering around the car park hoping to find a lift. I didn’t mind because it was good company. After a while I started charging ten pence each way so that my first beer every night would be paid for.
The best time to meet people was early in the evening at the bar, right after dinner. The Badock Hall bar had a pool table, snooker, darts and an unlimited stock of cheap beer. Most nights we sat with our feet up at low round tables waiting for something to happen. There was always music in the background, the Police, or the Pretenders, or Blondie, artists who were making waves at the time, and soon a small group formed around me. At first it would be two or three of us, then if it looked like we were having a good time, others would join. It was not uncommon at times for fifteen or twenty idle mops to be seated in a circle each. making his own semi-articulate contribution to whatever relevant and vital discussion was going on.
We thought it was our responsibility to change the world and make it a better place. That was the message we inherited from the 1960s, that students can make a difference. But we always had that one thing in our mind that got in the way. One night Gerry, the Northern Irish biochemist with an explosive orange Art Garfunkel hairdo, put it succinctly in neurological terms: “It’s more than a biochemical function,” he said in his catchy Belfast drawl, and a few others stopped to listen. . As parts of the body are stimulated, signals are sent through metabolic processes to the reticular formation in the brainstem and it is activated, so you get a feeling of pleasure. The process is solved by the lack of oxygen and the excessive pumping of blood around the body, so you get hotter and hotter during sex. It’s all linked to the hypothalamus, you know. Tat Bugger is responsible for everything. types Like so many details about our bodies, it has its own memory and is therefore habit-forming, so it’s easy to become addicted to sex.”
A small round of applause went up at the last moment. We were already members of that particular club. I was impressed by Gerry’s understanding of neurology, but determined to keep him well away from me the next time I tried to shoot.
I was once introduced to a fellow Greek Cypriot by someone who I thought was doing me a favor, but he seemed too meticulous, too narrow, a future bank manager if I ever saw one, and after a meeting or two I did my best to avoid him. Instead, he spent more and more time with a tall London geezer from the East End. He looked like he had been in a few Millwall games and came out on top. His name was Chukka, six foot four if he was an inch, with arms like an orangutan, long and dangling, casually carving great arcs of air as he walked. He always had a twinkle in his eye and a joint hanging out of one side of his smiling mouth. By the middle of the second term he had met and fallen in love with a blonde haired dwarf girl with a pretty face named Linda who always wore sexy leather or jeans like Suzi Quattro. Like Chukka, she was simple and had no airs or graces, and they were a fun couple to meet. With the difference in height there was about two feet of empty air between them but it didn’t stop them from being stuck in their mouths forever, he bent towards her and she stood on tiptoe, like a love-sick couple. children
Our social lives were a curious mixture of, on the one hand, sitting around trying to look intelligent and, on the other, behaving like brute beasts, the two contradictory impulses governing our behavior. Some people came down more on one side than the other, like my neighbor Sheridan who was a total geek and never seemed to leave his room but spent all his time studying, fixated on the mating practices of the Lesser Spotted Eagle or some such thing. inanity, while listening to harmless Steely Dan tunes, while others didn’t study a single joke the entire first term and devoted their energies to testing the limits of their resistance to partying.
I steered the middle path, drawn to the kind of people who sought the best of both worlds. I met people who refused to be pigeonholed or typecast, real characters in life. The people I associated with at uni would never forget: Chukka (who was really Charles) got his nickname from the volumes he threw up after a good night out but planned to get a first in Chemistry; Gerry, a brilliant biologist who in a future life found himself handcuffed to chicken wire on Greenham Common protesting against nuclear weapons or buried in some bog in the path of bulldozers coming to stop the construction of a flyover; and little Linda, whose beautiful little bottom gave us all pause for thought whenever she sang rock anthems, but one day she was going to be a researcher in a cancer unit, doing great work for children. They were unpredictable people with a dignified future.
We could talk about anything without fear of criticism or attack. It seemed to me a fair and constructive way of organizing things that could encourage people of the same age and with the same interests to live together and share a common dialogue, regardless of religious or political borders and without fear of persecution. It had similarities with the ancient Greek symposia that produced the intellectual fruit of fifth-century Athens. The fact that it was financed by the state made it noble.
Despite our high aspirations, the small talk in the first few weeks focused on what courses everyone was taking, the societies they all had joined, and the amount of work they were all getting, which varied from department to department, in other words, the typical curiosities of students we soon got bored and he kicked some of us out of the dorm and into the city to mix with the civvies.
In the city we drank amongst friendly Bristolians, hard-working people who weren’t trying to fix the world but did normal jobs for minimum wage, watched football at the weekends and got pissed off at night. In the future, when my life was going to get more complicated, I would think of that simple compromise, typical of a thousand English cities, a million boroughs of the United Kingdom, and see it as the perfect lifestyle. But I worried that I would never fit in, never be normal. Being bright was a curse, and many students felt it, drawn to the complex, the intangible, the mysterious and the unanswerable. It had always been that way. I still have a piece of paper written when I was about ten years old when I wrote: “Things to do before you get old: (A) find out if there is a God, (B) find out what happens after you die. , (C) learn the meaning of life .” With that kind of luggage, what were the chances of having a good time on the way?
Every bar, in order to survive, boasted cheap student nights during the week with wild themes, rowdy events that only criminals and the depraved would be crazy enough to attend.
One of those occasions, and the most momentous one, was the Ball of Vicars and Cakes. The great thing about being at Badock Hall was that we got to see all the girls in their best before we went out, so we could plan our girl strategy well in advance. They loved any excuse to get into their fishing nets and parade in front of us at the bar. And some of the boys were even more imaginative than the girls. We piled into taxis looking like the cast of “The Rocky Horror Show” the first great gay musical. Whenever we got downtown, it was like we owned it.
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