New Year, New Start?
No. Of course not. The New Year saw us continue to carry
ourselves in true student fashion. Mascara smudged around our faces, mouths as
dry as the Sahara desert, one next to a guy, the other next to the toilet.
It was decided we were too old for New Year’s Eve clubbing,
as it’s always expensive and a disappointment. So it was clear what we needed
to do, embrace our last New Year in Bristol, as students, in a house that if damaged,
the biggest cost would be the £350 deposit. I, (Emma), drew the short straw as
hostess and armed with supplies of cocktail umbrellas, 2014 sunglasses and £10
worth of bacon, we were ready, or were we?
All in all, it was successful, there was Shot Roulette, Ring
of Fire, Beer Pong, burnt pizza, Romanian shots, tears, massages, and of course,
the occasional trip on the chunder train.
I thought, no host can do better than supply an abundance of
pizza, Doritos and of course, booze. However, I over-looked one vital factor,
this being, my physical state and my ability to successfully cook the pizzas. By
pizza number 8, all the windows were open and we could no longer scoff at the
taste of charcoal; it became a bitter sweet familiarity. Though my chef skills
failed, everyone was grateful for the carb overload to try and counter the
alcohol flooding our bloodstreams. Nonetheless, this didn’t necessarily work
for everyone, after a round of Raspberry Sambuca, one of the boys merely looked
at me, cursed and chundered in the kitchen sink. Chunder No.1 of the evening
under our belt at a mere 9pm, we knew there was plenty more to come.
MIDNIGHT: We *apparently* gathered in my living room all
linked hands like the one big dysfunctional Oxfordian family we are and sang
Auld Lang Syne. All that is but one, who by 10:30pm had been tucked into my
onesie and passed out in my bed.
This is one of the few images that were taken that evening. We
played a guess the caption moment the next day trying to figure out if this was
Sarah eggin’ the boys on in a fight for her honour:
A personal highlight of mine comes from my co-author of this
blog, Miss Sarah Gore. She, like myself, and almost any girls our age, has a
very apparent thing for men with beards. Upon emerging from a room at around
4am, I found Sarah, along with 4 other men in my hallway. I heard the words ‘I don’t
like you. I just love your beard’. This couldn’t have been a prouder moment for
me.
As we all know, house parties are awesome, you’ll never beat
them, until you remember you’re the host and you don’t own a cleaning service
as a side business to fund your degree. Doritos became an official part of my
floors décor, and the carpet doubled up as a swimming pool. It was 5 bin bags
later and a very much deserved Maccy D’s on News Years which made us realise,
we may be third years, but we’ve still got it.
