One of UCL’s cleaners (not underpaid or undervalued by UCL or students at all!) shares their experience…
When you get to my age, you really learn to hate the young. You know the types – the ‘Ya, ya, yaa’ Quentins, the ‘bro, bro brooo’ Jakes. I’ve cleaned up all their sick – from their chunder in Chandler, their retches in Roberts, their puke in Pearson, their ‘art’ (shit) in the Slade and even their vomit in the Velaquez Memorial Lecture theatre in the Institute of the Americas.
When you’ve cleaned up enough regurgitated mess, you learn things. You begin to categorise them; you learn to spot the signs of a repeat offender. And then, how refreshing it is to glare at them from across the quad – their precious hair in a grimy knot, bodies empty of digestive waste but full to the brim with self-assured wankerness.
It wasn’t always this way, of course. As Spring turns to Autumn and kebabs turn to spew, so this weary world rolls on. My name is Grant. Malcolm Grant. Look me up, newbies – look me up and see your future. I’m laughing now though – ha ha ha ha ha ha ha – because I know that you’ll be here cleaning little Lord McShithead’s piss off the side of the portico when Daddy’s mummy runs dry afer another recession. When Mummy’s sold the wine cellar to pay off the gambling debts, you’ll come begging for my job. And I will laugh and spit and laugh and you will know the reckoning of the Gods.
You absolute fucks.
