Students love to party! Degree? What’s one of them? Let’s review that staple of UCL nightlife, the Roxy, and find out that it’s still as much fun as we (somewhat) remember (because we were drunk lol!!!).
[A note from the editor: Due to a com- puter error, the redaction of the author’s identity has not functioned properly. In the interest of maintaining their ano- nymity, please take a black pen and scrib- ble out their name from the top of this review.]
It is cold outside, but this sad cavern is so much colder. My change from yes- terday’s trousers clatters lovelessly on the bar. I am alone. They share their jugs of that loud, bright medicine.
It is swill to me. They dance, and they laugh. The thick, dead air does not sti- fle them. My limbs indulge in empty pleasantries with R Kelly, and my jaw contorts into a sick, involuntary grin. Somebody from my course, a lithe stranger shaped like a friend, grinds his way through the crowd like an uncle at a 14th birthday party. I cannot falter. I too, must grind. She is flaxen-haired and listless, but reciprocates. My gut is in a vice. My conscience tugs at it. “What’s next? A speech to the Tory conference? A law conversion? Vaginal intercourse? You ought to hate yourself.” I already do. I do not feel the girl’s embrace, only the dense grey fog of self-loathing. Paul Simon tells me to call him Al. I want to tell him to euthanise me. Another empty hour drags its heels across my raw, tender skin. I don’t feel the pain, I don’t feel anything anymore. I don’t feel anything anymore. Eventually, I climb out, back to the tarmacked shell of the life I pretend I love. I run for the bus. I’m flailing at my dreams with a sieve. The sieve is broken. Everyone has gone on without me. I sit on the pavement, pale and unsexed, eating a Subway and weeping.
SCORES ON THE DOORS
Choons: 5/5
Totty: 4/5
Banter: 5/5
Booze: 100%
Wow Factor: 4.5 yards