Selfish Martyrs & Melifluous Satyrs
Oi oi. Taking a break from reading excessive secondary texts about Victorian wives' etiquette & turn-of-the-century Southern feminist rants. It's true though, I think women - my mother being the first indicator of this, in my view - frequently sacrifice self-interest in petty, inconsequential style; it is pointless to matyr your independence only to grind down your soul. Quotes later, maybe, if I'm not too lazy.
Thursday night was a wickedfest. I was in the Old Duke 'til 11, listening to jazz and not talking much (it was quite loud). Then me & this girl from English & HB called Bethan (plus underenthusiatic chicks from neighbouring Uni Halls) went on to Stutter in the Manhattan Bar. It's an intimate indie club that played quality music all night. I mean, not just mainly good stuff, all four hours were profitably spent. THEY PLAYED INTERPOL! TWICE! JOY. A handful of pretties.. Also, a discomforting plague of indie girls who all looked the freaking same. STOP IT. If this is you, stop now. Literally every girl was wearing either one or all of the following; black & white striped top, white plastic, long strings of plastic beads, a mullet, 80s heels, skinny jeans, look of displeasure. It's boring. Plus, dancing in trainers is absolutely rocking because you don't have to leave the club whinging. So yeah, my dancing buddy & I stuck it out 'til the bitter, and then she made me oven chips.
Last night, not such a great time. Totally sad, in fact! Not crying sad, like the war. But just lame. UK hiphop in the Union bar and a round of "Circle of Death" (card-based drinking game resulting not in hilarious inebriation but freshers' confusion over rules) - these two events sent us home at 11pm to watch Jules Holland and.. well.. Sleep.
Now I have to decide whether the Hiatt Baker Speed Date will be more amusing or just plain excruciating.
Thursday night was a wickedfest. I was in the Old Duke 'til 11, listening to jazz and not talking much (it was quite loud). Then me & this girl from English & HB called Bethan (plus underenthusiatic chicks from neighbouring Uni Halls) went on to Stutter in the Manhattan Bar. It's an intimate indie club that played quality music all night. I mean, not just mainly good stuff, all four hours were profitably spent. THEY PLAYED INTERPOL! TWICE! JOY. A handful of pretties.. Also, a discomforting plague of indie girls who all looked the freaking same. STOP IT. If this is you, stop now. Literally every girl was wearing either one or all of the following; black & white striped top, white plastic, long strings of plastic beads, a mullet, 80s heels, skinny jeans, look of displeasure. It's boring. Plus, dancing in trainers is absolutely rocking because you don't have to leave the club whinging. So yeah, my dancing buddy & I stuck it out 'til the bitter, and then she made me oven chips.
Last night, not such a great time. Totally sad, in fact! Not crying sad, like the war. But just lame. UK hiphop in the Union bar and a round of "Circle of Death" (card-based drinking game resulting not in hilarious inebriation but freshers' confusion over rules) - these two events sent us home at 11pm to watch Jules Holland and.. well.. Sleep.
Now I have to decide whether the Hiatt Baker Speed Date will be more amusing or just plain excruciating.