How to Absolutely Smash Going Out in Your Second Semester of University | US | Translation

What does relief look like? Relief looks like your dad's Ford Focus saloon trundling into the inexplicably inconvenient designated pickup zone of your uni halls' car park. Relief looks like every scratch on the faded maroon paintwork. Relief looks like the cover of each of the innumerable Neil Young CDs in the glove compartment. Relief looks just like your dad looking back at you and your multiple wheelie bags of worthless life detritus and flicking his head at you very slightly to say: "there is no fucking way I am getting out of this car." Your first semester is over and never before did you fully appreciate the functional majesty of your dad's Ford Focus.

Only five months ago, as the very same car dropped you off, you were full of such optimism, weren't you? You were going to the promised land, 200 miles away from that dying 6th form relationship and pubs where using your older brothers ID was a non-starter because the supervisor is your older brother. You had several durable supermarket bags worth of spatulas and baked beans and the Trainspotting poster was snugly rolled up, ready to adorn that 3k a term ensuite prison cell you'd always, always dreamed of. Life was about to start. This was it. This was living.

It was meant to be a place where no-one knew about the time shat yourself in Year 11 maths and picked up the simple, devastating nickname 'Shit Man'. No, this was the start of a glorious new chapter that promised hot, moody French girls, earnest conversations about the 'State of the Novel' and —most importantly— the prospect of gigantic character forming nights out. Christ, how you worked for that B C C: it was only right that you should enjoy the fruits of your labour.

Didn't turn out that way, though, did it mate? You bumped into snide Kyle from home on the first day of Freshers Week and he followed you back to your flat and told the whole kitchen, including the hot, moody French girl, all about your little moniker, didn't he? Maybe not the best of starts, but fuck it, you still had the going out to look forward to, right?

Wrong. Absolutely, irredeemably wrong. It's amazing how quickly four nights a week of Apple Sourz filled banality can melt a big student loan sized chunk of money and leave you gripped with ennui, yearning for the Christmas holiday and an actual place to wash your pants that doesn't involve ambling down to Sainsburys in the hope that the bloke at customer services will swap an Mkat sodden fiver for a batch of gleaming 20 pence pieces.

Look, there is nothing I can do about the 'Shit Man' thing—that is your cross to bear until your dying day—But if you listen to the five following dollops of AAA advice then I can guarantee you'll have a better nightlife experience in your second semester or I'll personally refund that 9k fee.

Sure 'In$olvent Tuesdays' sound great, but you've been to 14 of them and you went to home to cry in the shower after every single time. Student unions are typified by three things:

• Dialysis inducing booze served at barely legal prices.
• Every single prick that you've met so far acting in the most obnoxious fashion possible.
• Sports team's socials.

The first of those is manifestly a good thing, the other two are manifestly not. Ask yourself this, did you like getting your drink getting knocked onto your best jeans by that pogoing Rugger twat as "This Charming Man" came on for the 302nd time in the night? We both know that you didn't.

Trust me on this, it's never going to get any better. Just clock in ironically once a year for when the puggy looking one from The View turns up to stumble through a 'DJ Set': play that right and you've got a 30+ liker of a Facebook picture on your hands. You're welcome.

Ah the smoking area, zone of the night's real meat and marrow. Remember when you managed to instigate a conversation with that impossibly attractive person at the bar and they inexplicably asked if you fancied going for a fag. "Yes, I would love a fag because I love smoking," that's what you said. That's what you said because you are an utter turd. So you're outside and you both agree that Mr Scruff is good and you're learning all about their incredibly successful, stimulating life, thinking "you are essentially a God in human form." They seem to respond well to a few of your less appalling jokes and don't seem to be completely repelled by your existence. It was going so well.

But you didn't have any fags did you? You had to ask for one of theirs and it was one of those long, glam Vouge things, wasn't it? There is no less flattering fag in existence. No fag shows up your badly basted ham complexion quite like one of those long, glam Vouge fags. One person's effortless thin, sophisticated plumes blown through brilliant teeth is another's 'I Stole Mum's Duty Frees Because I'm Too Cheap To Cough Up £2.99 On A 3-in-1 box of GV'.

Sort it out mate.

Yes, I know, this is basically asking you to predict the future. Yes, I know, as advice goes this is pretty much telling you that 'picking the right results' is the key to a successful accumulator. Yes, we both know all this, but I can't overstate the importance of picking the right afterparty. It all got a bit real that time you peeled off with 'Mkat Malky' (he actually changed it by deed poll) and the big boys made you take your top off and snort things off Bowie knives: it sounds awful, but haha "YOLO" as the kids say. Or at least they did say until they got sectioned half-way through their 2nd year.

Try and give the Pink Floyd poster crowd a swerve as well: you don't want to spend the early morning weird time in an incense engulfed bedroom taking sporadic lugs of a prison thin zoot, locked into conversation with a sinister PHD student who wants to tell you all about his research. This man is wearing a 'Vote For Pedro' T-shirt and smells like spinach splayed on the radiator. Ask yourself: is this conversation, with this man, at this moment in time exactly what I want? The Londis by your bit opened 20 minutes ago, you could have a nice carton of Rubicon, four Mars bars for a quid and your lovely, lovely bed.

Sometimes retreat isn't defeat. Call it a night, you utter space cadet.

Ok, this is fairly mumsy advice but remember how pissed your actual mum was when you let your phone rot away in your pocket until 8pm on Sunday. Quick numbers game for you:

1: The amount of hours it takes to fully charge your phone.
1: The amount of fun you had on a scale of 1/10 at the aforementioned afterparty.
1: The amount of Ruby wedding anniversaries that your grandparents will have in their lifetimes.
1: The amount of Ruby wedding anniversaries that you missed because you couldn't be arsed charging your phone before going to the aforementioned afterparty.
234: The number of missed calls from your mum.
210: The number of missed calls from your older sister.
40-45: The amount of years that, in light of the capabilities of medical science and the fact that she has 'never touched a fag in her life', your mum hopefully still has to live.
40-45: The amount of years remaining in which your mum will never forgive you for missing your grandparents Ruby wedding anniversary.

Life Hack: one great, quirky little way of remembering your charger is to tie it round your neck like a cool little, futuristic USB necklace which—trust me—makes the ladies go capital B-onkers.

But it's 'In$olvent Tuesday!!!!!!!!'

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