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Three Years Of Hell At The University Of Wolverhampton

Between 2006 and 2009 I studied photography at the University of Wolverhampton, a city famous for Slade, ethnic rioting, Enoch Powell’s “Rivers of Blood” speech and a football team with an orange kit.

THREE YEARS OF HELL AT THE UNIVERSITY OF WOLVERHAMPTON

Photo by Olaia Boton

Between 2006 and 2009 I studied photography at the University of Wolverhampton, a city famous for Slade, ethnic rioting, Enoch Powell’s “Rivers of Blood” speech and a football team with an orange kit.

Wolverhampton was recently voted the fifth worst city to visit in the world by Lonely Planet. That’s ahead of Baghdad, Kabul and Glasgow. It’s fitting that as you leave the city by train there’s a monument with the city’s motto stating: “Out of darkness cometh the light”.

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After endless bad reviews and far too long spent languishing at the bottom of university league tables, Wolverhampton decided to remove itself from the league system entirely, claiming the whole ranking scheme to be “unfair”.

One of the few redeeming features of the university is its cultural diversity, which has been mired by incidents of racism. One involved a group of Sikhs wrapping bacon around the door handles of a Muslim student’s car, which sparked a mini riot on campus.

Oh, and when we arrived at the university, all the freshers had to attend a lecture on health and safety where we were told to constantly be vigilant of our neighbours because in the past year a student had died and had gone unnoticed for over a week. Welcome to the University of Wolverhampton, guys!

Photo by Valerie Verdoia

YEAR 1

Dear prospective students, if your halls of residence cost £40 a week, don’t expect en-suites, porters and a bidet. I foolishly picked my halls before actually visiting them, a terrible error. Nicknamed “suicide towers” due to the spate of suicides induced by living there, Randall Lines was a bit like a chicken coop. Twelve people shared a kitchen and a bathroom. We had an infestation of silverfish (tough little silver insects—google them). My room was sandwiched between a wannabe DJ trying and failing to mix until the small hours and a serial shagger, whose poor girlfriend would receive regular pummellings that I could hear every last detail of thanks to the Rizla-thin walls.

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During my first year an AIDS epidemic swept the city, striking down many of the local prostitutes and johns and putting the fear of God into any prospective couples wishing to copulate in any of the city’s fine public toilet facilities.

Randall Lines also happened to be situated right across from Molineux, home to Wolverhampton Wanderers FC. Twice a year they would play West Bromwich Albion. If you have never witnessed a local derby and fancy an afternoon that makes

The Football Factory

look like

Fievel Goes West

then West Brom vs Wolves is not a bad place to start. In my first year, Wolves equalised in the 90th minute, causing West Brom fans to rip up the seats to use as weapons against the police and rival fans. The rioting soon spread until every pub and shop in the area had to be closed while public transport was suspended. And that was billed as a quiet year.

Photo by Olaia Boton

YEAR 2

Second year meant moving out of halls and into a house with some people who didn’t poo in the communal sink or leave rancid, half-eaten Pot Noodles in the fridge to fester for months on end.

One thing you can’t call Wolverhampton out on is its prices. It cost me £45 a week to rent my room, which is less than half what your average London room would set you back. Our house featured a hacked Sky box with more free sports, movies and soft porn than you could wish for, three PS3s and an Xbox. No paradise comes without a hitch, though. For a start, our neighbours seemed to have the police on speed dial and would have anything resembling a large gathering dispersed immediately. We also got burgled several times by rather useless thieves who never seemed to actually steal anything. Oh, and we had to put up with having a real-life crack den three doors down, meaning we had prostitutes and junkies constantly knocking on our door for spare change, routine police raids at unsociable hours and, well, the constant temptation of having a crack den three doors down. All of which made the fact that our boiler did not work for the entire year, leaving us to freeze, seem like a minor inconvenience.

YEAR 3

At the start of my third year the student union had closed, meaning no immediate access to cheap alcohol, which forced students to start drinking in the local boozers. Cue a rise in muggings and assaults. Halfway through the year our local, The Goalpost, was hit by a drive-by shooting. Some inept local villain drove past and attempted to machine-gun three people standing outside. He managed to miss with every single one of his 30 rounds. Reports of a gang war started to surface and, sure enough, a middle-aged man was found on the other side of the city a week later with a gunshot wound to the head.

Wolverhampton may not be Baltimore, but the murders didn’t stop there. A few months later a headless body was found floating in a canal. Believe me, I was happy to leave the place and return to the sleepy Cotswolds.