Thursday, 7 March 2013

Wednesday Night's Alright for Fighting!

Ladies and Gentleman, raise a glass for the Wednesday night.

It beholds love stories even Hollywood couldn't write. Boy meets girl, boy buys girl a drink, girl walks off with free drink, boy punches other boy for spilling his drink, which has effectively now cost him twice as much, since the other one vanished from straight under his nose. "That's eight quid worth of something remotely like vodka and imitation cola you've knocked over there, you cunt!" et cetera. Wednesdays eh?!

Whilst there are a plethora of societies at Swansea, ranging from the very popular football society, to the not-as-popular James Brittain Appreciation Society (which is always looking to recruit new members if anyone wants to squeeze in a bit of razzle dazzle before May?), whatever their differences, all societies run off to their own bar which gave them a little bit of money so that they could spend amounts in there that even The Queen would call "excessive", and then all come out and congregate in a very limited number of nightclubs for one night each week. These nightclubs stay exactly the same for a while, then, for some reason, they all completely change, because "nobody goes there anymore".

This concept of a Wednesday has always baffled me because, until last October, I wasn't in any society, other than the aforementioned Appreciation Society (still looking!), and the only "socials" we had were coffee mornings and a very, VERY brief meet and greet. Thankfully, this year, I'm essentially friends with benefits with the very hospitable and banterous (if such a word is still cool, or even actually exists) Rugby League society. The friendship being the captain is my housemate, and the benefits being, courtesy of a neck injury which I tragically picked up when I saw the size of everybody else, I don't have to risk having my face reshaped each and every Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. At first I thought everyone would look at me like you would at somebody who got a job in an office for sleeping with the boss, and whilst that is entirely true, they've been kind enough to look past it for my sake.

So I stand for a couple of hours on the touchline, each Wednesday like a sheepish father coming to watch his son, shout a few unhelpful things like "tackle him!" and "argh, ref!", pat a few players on the back for their efforts, make a special effort to pat the captain (after all, it is down to his grace and my sleeping with him which got me in this society in the first place), go home, get changed, drink with them, and talk to them about all I've just seen at their game which, is A. Quite a lot, as I didn't have to concentrate on playing my own game, and B. the last thing they want to talk about, because they know what just happened, they were bloody there, and they certainly don't need the opinion of someone who has the air of a snidey supporter who somehow always sneaks a VIP pass onto the touchline.

By about 1:30 in the cold, stale morning, I'm a quivering wreck after spending a four or five hours being intimidated by men who can polish off a pint as if it was a thimble of water, trying my hand and failing miserably at dancing in order to impress a lady, making the best effort not to look casually racist as I try to order some chicken for the walk home, but can't hear a word the vendor is saying because my eardrums have been shattered by atrocious music, give up, get some sushi and water from Tesco and lie in bed regretting I ever went out.

Then Thursday morning ACTUALLY comes, and you just wish you had never been bloody born. Or at the very least, drunk so much.

Still, I bet it doesn't stop you doing exactly the same thing next week.  

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