YOU ARE NOW a university student. Regardless of whether your family has a coat of arms, a £300,000 semi-detached five bed house in Maidstone or a court summons for benefit fraud, one thing is certain – you are a living, breathing, walking cliché.
It isn’t exactly your fault. Since finishing your exams you’ve been drowning, stuck in a vat of toss fed to you by everyone you know. You could take that Che Guevara t-shirt and garrotte yourself with it, but that would getting off lightly. Flaying yourself alive is the only way to remove every last fibre of stereotype from your whimpering young body.
Run back to your halls and tear that Quentin Tarantino poster from above you bed. Everyone hates being rich at UCL, so buck the trend and mount a bear head on the wall. Complete your image by hiring a small Indian boy to wait on you; then and only then will you be able to get roaring drunk, wave your cock in your female friends faces and still be dignified.
Drug taking is a pitfall of banality. Be original and try really hard. If you do choose to pursue chemical highs, avoid popular drugs like coke – try peyote instead. For the really daring, lick the scrotum of a nearby tramp, alleged to harbour hallucinogenic properties. Round it all off by proving students aren’t wimps and put the boot into the fucker – don’t stop kicking until his left eye bursts.
Sex is expected of students. Boys and girls all over UCL will fucking and sucking throughout Fresher Week, so strike a pose and stand out. Have a mastectomy, lose your testicles and declare yourself sexually null and void. If self mutilation still isn’t extreme enough, commit harakiri on the steps of the Portico and let the Slade students use your blood for an installation.
Just remember, joining BALLS does not give you an edge.