11.30pm. I’m walking down an empty London street with a beverage canister of Beck’s clasped firmly in my hammy, clammy hands. A group of young men and women surround me, engaged in casual yet excited conversation. I’m trying to conceal my confusing erection.
“What course are you doing, then?” a young man asks a gap-toothed woman walking beside him. “I don’t go to universi- ty,” replies the woman. “I work on the bins. I’m just going to the shops for Vimto and a copy of the New Scientist. What halls are you in?”
“Art History” says the man. “No, wait, Ifor. Out in the sticks! Haha! Good to be in Camden though. I think my friends from home are racist.”
“Ah nice,” replies the woman. They continue to walk. The throbbing silence assaults him like a coked-up lower-league footballer. It isn’t pleasant. He inhales, deeply, and sicks up a little more smalltalk.
“So, haha, have you got a student Oyster card yet? Haha. Need to save money when you’re a student! I’m still a virgin. Haha.” Alas, the pallid, post-industrial woman has sidled into Chicken Cottage. He presses on, down this empty Camden street.
I’m behind him, looking at his arse. To- gether we’re heading to Koko, the plaque- encrusted aorta at the centre of the pus- filled circulatory system of Freshers Week in London.
We go in. Koko is an abandoned thea- tre hall. Its only concession to its vaudeville past is the fact that it smells like the clothes George Formby died in. The grandiose surroundings associated our night with theatricality and masquerade - ours would be an evening of wonder, liberation and hubris.
Don from Exeter, studying Bibliogra- phy, agreed. “Yeah, I really like it, S’great!”, he says with a perverse, unsettling softness, carefully placing his arm over my shoulders in an expression of manly affection. “Plen- ty of girls in thereee! Go on Matty, Manny. Whats you name again mate?”
His rummy niceties splutter into and around my ears. Then the bouncers call him a cunt, pouring coffee into his eyes and kicking him out. Such is Koko. It didn’t matter. I didn’t need Don. This Ice- breaker event was a fabulous opportunity for new university students to bond and cement potent friendships.
I mean, I alone, a 32-year-old Maths teacher only pretending to be a student, met a multitudinous collection of won- derful people. There was Claire who is studying Freudian Archaeology, Justinia, a Marinated Sociology student who refused me a cigarette, and a very sweaty white boy from London Met wearing football boots with chinos.
It was all so overwhelming. The heady, sinewy mix of friendship and R&B made it difficult to for me to contain myself. I stood in the corner and started getting with my arm just to make sure the old magic was still there. It wasn’t.
By the time I’d turn round I realise all of my best friends have left. I don’t have any of their numbers, and nor have I spo- ken to any of them at any point during the evening. It is a long journey home to Am- ersham. I try to walk along the Metropoli- tan Line but don’t have enough credit on my Oyster Card. I fall asleep on the meat counter of a 24 hour Tescos in Ealing.
It was a fucking mad one mate.
Marty Gunspurtz’s current where- abouts are unknown.