Mid-Student-Life Crisis

As the end of my second year at Leeds approaches I am experiencing what can only be described as a mid-student-life crisis. Lying awake at night, staring blankly up at my crumbling ceiling (oh the joys of student housing) I think back to September. Although it only feels like a few weeks ago my diary, my work file and unfortunately my bank account is basically hitting me around the head, screaming “September was eight months ago you fool!” And as I start to relay what’s happened in those eventful eight months I realise that university life is far too fleeting to appreciate as you’re living it.

It probably doesn’t feel like it now, what with the constant barrage of essay deadlines and the increasing panic of last-minute revision for those terribly enjoyable exams, but “they” (don’t ask me who “they” are – “they’re” just incredibly wise people) do say that university are the best years of your life. So to cheer you all up during this depressing month for students nationwide, I’m going to attempt to remind you why back at the tender age of seventeen we all decided university would be a good idea.

I don’t know about you, but I’m from a pretty small town – actually I think “boring” would be a more appropriate and accurate description. It’s great for a night out when you’re in a large group of your closest friends, but with only one decent pub, two bars and one ludicrously expensive night-club it doesn’t really accommodate for students. That’s why when I first arrived in Leeds as a naive and overly-excited Fresher I resembled something like a deer in headlights – or a small child (truthfully, I don’t think you need to be small – or a child) in a sweet shop. Bright-eyed I relished the cheap alcohol, the cheap entry and the cheap men (just kidding!) and the realism of living in a big, student-orientated city finally began to hit. Take a few moments to think about your most recent night out (if it’s not all a big haze) and consider the differences between where you’re from and where you are now. If you were born and bred in London then this doesn’t really apply to you, but if like me you’re a country bumpkin hopefully what I’m saying will resonate. University provides you with all the nights out, all the hangovers and all the horrible, bonfire-worthy photos which you perhaps wouldn’t experience or own without feeling pressured to swallow those tequila shots as everyone around you is screaming “Down it Fresher!”So as bad as it feels the next day, and as awkward as those conversations with your parents are about drinking your money away feel reassured that it is all a learning experience. Those terrible tequila-fuelled hangovers (and from my own learning experience I can absolutely declare those the worst hangovers of the lot) are merely parts of life as a student… And I’m sure as you’re nursing your heads and your bank cards you can all take consolation in that fact and be happy that higher education is teaching you something worthwhile.

University, despite the long hours spent in the library and the horrible, but hopefully rare, 9am lecture on a Monday morning will be the only three years in your life when you can stay in bed until midday and then struggle to “work” for a maximum of two hours before declaring yourself “shattered” and feeling the need for a nap. For fourteen years at school (man, that’s depressing) we all had to drag ourselves out of bed at 7am and stay awake, stay intelligent and stay interested for eight hours every single day. Every day! University, mercifully, provides us with three years of respite and rest before being cruelly spat out of the system in our black graduation gowns and hats to an endless career in employment which expects us to be up and about before the crack of dawn. Appreciate these few, short years. Perhaps use them wisely and stock up on sleep. Once you’re in the big bad world, I fear you’re going to need it.

Being a student brings with it many perks. But there are not many more rewarding than being able to whip out your student card (hiding the photo) at the till in your favourite clothes shop and being told you’re now privileged to pay 10% less than everyone else lined up behind you. Result. My own student card and therefore my discount is valid until September 2013 and I have complied a (mental – I’m not as sad as to commit it to paper) list of everything I need to buy beforehand. Did you know Apple’s student discount is 15%? I may not particularly need a new laptop, but with savings like that – how do I resist? For three years, and no longer, we as a hard-working and enthusiastic (ignore my sleep and nap comments above) population and future generation of politicians, medics and teachers are rewarded with the small prize of money off our purchases. Relish the discount. Appreciate the idea. And buy everything you could possibly need for the next ten years while it’s cheap. We need to screw the government back in some way or other.

So as this whirlwind of alcohol, hangovers, sleep and shopping overtakes your life just remember to sit back and look at it all happening from a distance. These three years of university fly by so fast – and why shouldn’t they, after all one year is basically eight months, and before you know it you’ll be moaning about mortgages and taxes (how am I doing at cheering you up by the way?) and wishing you were back wearing Converse all day and partying all night. Exams and essays may not be the highlight of being a student, but unfortunately they are necessary. Happily for us all though, being a student allows us to behave irresponsibly in three years of fun, mistakes and madness. Surely, being able to spend the majority of our degree in bed, in clubs and in shops is not something to be sniffed at. So once or twice while you’re struggling to understand your scribbled lecture notes, just remember that being a student is actually pretty damn great, and if you don’t believe me then you’re probably liver-damage free and heading towards a First. 

Proof that Barack Obama is far too cool for Politics

If you haven’t already seen this video then you’re British or you don’t spend hours wasting time on YouTube…

I’m both. But a random Google search of ‘Barack Obama’ and this video comes up. He’s almost too smooth and too cool for words.

Watch, enjoy, and if you don’t laugh then I don’t know what to do with you.

“It’s My Party & I’ll Cry if I Want to…”

If you’ve ever held a student house party then I’m sure you will resonate very strongly with those lyrics – although a part of me does kind of hope you didn’t play that song to the crowd of Dub-Stepaholics: YouTube it and you’ll understand my reservations. Lesley Gore, whoever she is, doesn’t exactly scream “Party in t’House” (excuse the Northern accent, remember we’re in Leeds) but it does sum up the sinking feeling you experience when you’ve woken up from the night before…

House parties are notoriously messy. They begin fine – perhaps a few early birds turn up and there may be an awkward silence, but it turns out that if you throw alcohol at the situation anything can be easily dissolved. It is in fact after you’ve drowned the “situation” that the fun and mess truly begins. One second you’re having a gentile conversation with a friend in the kitchen, sipping away at your single vodka and lemonade and then, before you know it you’re moshing in the front room drinking shots of Schnapps (shouting “Party in t’House!”) while watching complete and utter strangers destroy your home…

But does destruction and chaos come with the territory? My housemates and I decided to hold a party on Saturday night. We invited pretty much everyone we knew, hired speakers as big as a car (maybe a small car – a KA perhaps, but still a car) and tidied all of our mess and valuables away. As you can imagine the cleaning process was futile but nonetheless, we did it all. Then at 10pm we invited the student population into our house. And that, as the saying goes, was when the proverbial hit the fan.

Two hours into the party a guy passes out on the sofa from what I can only expect was a vodka coma. I was watching him (… read as ‘encouraging him’) swig from the “bottle of broken dreams” beforehand and was, quite frankly, impressed at his stamina and determination. He was I ensure you, an athlete in his field. But even Usain Bolt runs out of puff eventually and quietly bowing out of the game he stumbled home – to a rapturous round of applause.

As the first casualty staggered lost around Leeds, the party continued to go from strength to strength. A combination of unlimited time, unlimited booze and being surrounded by all your friends at once provided the perfect excuse to forget all about deadlines, exams and placements. An excuse, which my friend proved, was as good as any. As you probably know once a party gets into the swing of things all basic house rules tend to be forgotten: smoking is allowed in the kitchen – in fact we are so accommodating you don’t even have to be near a window. Sofas aren’t there to sit on, don’t be silly – they’re there to stand on! Oh and who really needs a smoke alarm in the living room? It’s yours for the taking… (Please, please sense the sarcasm). However, many people, including my friend “Ginny” (not her real name, but a title which seems entirely appropriate due to the bottle of Gordon’s she was hugging tight all night) did have the courtesy to lean out of the door when the inevitable happened. And that alcohol-fuelled mess, thankfully, we can leave for nature to wash away.

I think we as a house can look back at the party as being the ultimate in success stories. That is of course, a success story in terms of the unimportant … Our time would probably have been better spent working or reading – but then, where’s the fun in that? Despite the absolute mess they cause, in the kitchen, living room, bathroom and even, for some reason out in the street, house parties are the pinnacle of a good night. However, considering how we all felt the next morning when hearing that disgusting noise of alcohol draining away down the sink, I can’t help but think it’s better for all if house parties are a rare occurrence. After all, surely it’s better to go to a club for the night and let someone else clean up the mess in the morning?

Should Girls Fake It?

Should Girls Fake It? 

As summer approaches and the sun is beaming down upon us all…

Sorry, let me re-phrase… As the rain is pelting down hard at my window I’m trying really hard (honestly) to concentrate on revision and essay writing while doing my utmost to avoid ‘Googling’ cheap holiday getaways. It is oh-so-easy to forget summer is just around the corner at this moment in time. June, July and August have already been highlighted in my diary and I have filled the dog-eared pages with many exciting plans to make the most of the short-lived freedom. For me summer is all about long nights, excuses to spend the afternoon in beer gardens and best of all: the chance to check out hot men behind the secretive shelter of dark sunglasses.  But it does come with the (obviously life-altering and difficult) decision of whether the female sex should stay au natural or go fake. Should we girls be spending our evenings exfoliating, moisturising and applying the dark, threatening foam or should we be stepping out into the world and proudly displaying our pale British skin with gusto?

Before I step into somewhat dangerous territory there’s something I need to get off my chest: “My name is Jessica Baggaley and I’m an occasional fake-tan user”. There, I’ve said it and boy, is it a relief. Following the success of programmes such as The Only Way is Essex and Made in Chelsea fake tan has become a forbidden fruit for the general and normal female population. It’s sat there in your room gently tempting you with the promise of a “healthy glow all year round” but you are more than aware that to take it and apply it will not be beneficial to your “cool and individual” image. But then again, I accept that I am neither of these things, and so am happy to give into temptation.  I expect that for many girls, including me, fake tan is a confidence-booster. There is something utterly satisfying about pulling on a white t-shirt, looking in the mirror and seeing ‘summer’ staring back at you. Well it is for me… But I evidently don’t have much else going on in my life. It’s small, it may be petty but when you burn after just ten minutes of sun-bathing, the ability to transform your skin from red to brown in a matter of minutes is revolutionary. Better than sliced bread in fact.

Before you say it, I am aware that to “fake it” is incredibly vain. It’s also not 100% successful or reliable (just so you know – neither is contraception. Stay safe kids). We’ve all seen the episode of Friends when Ross decides to take the plunge and have a spray tan with disastrous consequences to one side of his body and I’m pretty sure no one is keen to follow in his footsteps.   But even when the outcome is successful are tanned girls more attractive than pale girls? Absolutely not. In fact, very brief and haphazard research of mine has proved that men find the women who embrace their natural look much more attractive than those who have to work at their image. In fact, pale and natural girls have dominated the top 10 of ‘FHM’s 100 Sexiest Women’ this year with Katy Perry, Kelly Brooke and Megan Fox all advocating the pale way. (Ironically they don’t support the natural look for other parts of their body but that’s not up to me to judge…)

Truthfully, it doesn’t matter whether you rock the pale look or reach for the St Tropez – if you put on some shorts, grab your friends and go out and have a good time you will look great no matter what. So pale, fake tanned or naturally tanned (actually, all you naturally tanned people, I don’t particularly like you) wait for the rain to stop (if only to avoid streaks) and then step out into the sun. I’ll be out to join you soon, I’m just going to hang around a little longer and research the 100 Sexiest Men. Purely for the sake of journalism you understand… 

Are we Looking at a New Breed of Students?

Rise in Tuition Fees, 2012.

Imagine the following scene: September 2012, Fresher’s Week. There is the usual madness of drunken UV-painted ‘geeks’ lining the streets at night; the lost fresher wandering around campus not sure whether being 15 minutes late to his lecture is acceptable or whether he should just give in and go get a coffee, and the ground is littered with countless promotional leaflets. Not so different to every other year right? Well, what if someone happened to ask that group of ‘geeks’ or that lost tired fresher how much their parents earn, or where they went to school? The chances are, what with September bringing with it an increase in tuition fees to £9000, they will not be your average Joe from average town… (Not an actual place but I could imagine it being pretty boring).

University is all about diversity (no rhyme intended). You are supposed to mix with people that you wouldn’t usually hang about with, and it doesn’t matter where you’re from, who you are or what your parents do. You’re at University, you’re having fun and you’re getting drunk. For many people that’s all they need to know and let’s be honest – the more people you mix with, the more drinking games you learn: a vital part of undergraduate education.

But will the new rise in tuition fees from about £3500 to £9000 a year limit the diversity of a University community? My own mum didn’t go on to University when there were no tuition fees as the general cost of living was considered too high. Now we’re faced with a recession, extortionate petrol prices and the brilliant prospects of leaving education with at least a debt of £27,000. The truth of the matter is, despite the government’s best intentions – and I’m sure their intentions were genuine…  A large proportion of the September 2012-13 cohort are going to be extremely rich, and the rest are going to be tightening their belts so hard they are going to need to punch an extra hole in the leather. Now I don’t care if someone is wealthy or not, but this is undoubtedly going to change the whole dynamic of student life and will influence the general, cynical and public opinion of students – an image which in some respects I’m quite proud of…

Ask any middle-aged man how he thinks a student dresses and how they spend their day and I would expect the bitter answer would be “messy and sleeping”. Now, you and I know that this is not necessarily true. The majority of the student population is extremely hard-working and more often than not, they do shower. But for the prosperity of tradition I would like this opinion to continue. What if in 2015 we ask the same question and the answer is “Hugo Boss and drinking champagne”. I’m not OK with that (I may be jealous of that, but I’m not OK with it). I am possibly stereotyping and I’m open to arguments, but an increase of £6000 a year is a hell of a lot of cash and that difference may only allow the most privileged into University. I’m not sure the privileged enjoy orange VK’s and fried chicken.

The point I’m making is, have the government by raising the fees to 9K caused a new breed of students to emerge from the depths of the finest public schools in Britain? The balance between state-school and public-school students at Cambridge and Oxford has long been debated and criticised – how beneficial is it to the future of Britain to let this imbalance spread across the country? I love student life and all it entails, and I genuinely hope that the majority of young people will not miss out on the messy and brilliant experiences I’ve had because of the simple currency of life – money. I can’t, however, see how they won’t.

The Old Man & The Sea

It doesn’t matter whether you’ve read the book or not, this video of an Image & Communication’s student sketching the plot of Ernest Hemingway’s ‘The Old Man & The Sea’ is pretty immense.
Artists, readers or just appreciative people can enjoy watching. Even music fans as the song ‘Sail’ by Awolnation is a catchy backdrop to a catchy video.

Enjoy!

The Hunger Games

The Hunger Games

The most recent teenage sensation to hit our screens is the blockbuster adaptation of Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games. Aimed at teenagers from the age of 11-19 the film brilliantly captures the terrifying prospect of a post-apocalyptic world just seventy years into the future. North America no longer exists: there is no bustling, modern city of New York, no Golden Gate Bridge and definitely no Obama to support the country with his reassuring chant of “Yes we can!” In its place is the divided nation of Panem. Distinguished only by wealth and poverty, Panem is split into “Districts” and The Hunger Games follows the story of Katniss Everdeen – a fatherless and poor teenage girl from District 12.

The core of The Hunger Games plot, as the title so clearly suggests, is the annual ‘festivities’ of ‘The Hunger Games’. Intended to punish and control the population of Panem each community must sacrifice one teenage boy and one teenage girl to fight for survival in a vast arena watched and celebrated by millions. Surprisingly enough it is the protagonist Katniss Everdeen who volunteers for the role of District 12’s “tribute” and the film continues in a frenzy of violence, mind-games and oddly, romance – evidence that even in the darkest film sex still sells.

As a twenty year old I’m pretty resilient. I don’t tend to watch horror films for the simple fact that I’m not insane. I can handle Taken and Liam Neeson’s habit of snapping people’s necks, and I don’t wince (anymore) at The Silence of the Lambs. I was therefore pretty sure that The Hunger Games, being dubbed the next big teenage hit since Twilight and Harry Potter, was safe. It wasn’t.

For the most part I was sat looking everywhere in the cinema other than the big screen. I kept glancing to my friend who was avidly involved in the plot therefore offering no support, and I was welcoming to any distraction available. I didn’t even tut when the girl next to me picked up her iPhone (that’s how hard I was concentrating on not concentrating – I noticed the brand of her mobile) and had a conversation. I became aware that this film is not so far from reality, and I think that is what makes it so much harder to watch than the fictional violence between mythical characters in Twilight or Harry Potter. I blame my degree. After hours spent analysing passages in minute detail and then concocting sometimes ridiculous theories to explain what the author meant by using a semi-colon instead of a comma, I tend to read too much into things. The Hunger Games may be on the surface just an excellent fictional novel adapted into an all-singing, all-dancing, brilliantly filmed blockbuster hit, but perhaps if we delve a little deeper we can all find our own scary interpretation.

The strong force of government power; the risk of eternal punishment for rebellion; the internal animalistic instincts for survival even children have within them or perhaps just the overwhelming judgements the human race make based on wealth are all dark and terrifying themes within The Hunger Games. It is a modern alternative Lord of the Flies in which technology, Big Brother and popular culture only serves to intensify and magnify the damage.

And you all thought it was a simple entertaining film… How wrong you are. Or perhaps, as my friend suggested as I rambled about all this on the way home – I’m just “reading far too much into it”.

“Hated Because I’m Beautiful”

Samantha Brick

This woman and her self-acclaimed beauty has officially gone viral. In fact, she is now so infamous she cropped up in conversation when I was catching up with my friends on Good Friday morning. A conversation which usually focuses on men, sex and the unforgiving spot on our friend’s face (while eating and drinking tea – all favourite habits of ours) it is quite unusual to discuss and debate a recent article by an unknown journalist, and yet, that’s what dominated our chat for a decent period of time. There are teenagers, professionals and retired couples all over the country who are using Brick as the proverbial ‘butt’ of their jokes and Brick herself has complained about the barrage of abuse she has received over often cruel and unforgiving social media sites. The truth of the matter is the majority of these people “tweeting” about their hatred of Brick have probably never bought a copy of the Daily Mail in their lives, (unfortunately that can’t be said for my parents, but there’s no teaching taste) and it is merely the assertive, confident and arrogant way in which the journalist chooses to convey her point which has resulted in a frenzy of “Trending Topics” and embedded links in Round Robin e-mails. And perhaps, controversially, she does have a point.

We as a general, growing and aging population are becoming ever more obsessed with beauty. We admire women who “look good for their age” (whatever their age may be); we stock our bathrooms with anti-wrinkle creams, and we are constantly searching for that item of clothing which knocks decades off our lives. This increasing fascination with beauty is not a simple deviation from our wish to look good but a compelling result of the competition between the female sex to be the most attractive at the party, at work or even in the street. This is of course, a fairly secretive desire of most women and they will perhaps deny that the reason they are spending hours perfecting their make-up is to attract the attention of perfect strangers but there is no disputing the confidence boost a woman will experience in considering themselves the best-dressed in a large crowd during a night out. It is this sudden, unexpected and yet much-needed surge of adrenaline and confidence which is so addictive for the female sex, and it is perhaps the “hit” which Samantha Brick is constantly in search of.

However, for Brick to state that she is hated as a result of her astounding beauty is perhaps elaboration for the sake of journalism. I for one, (and this may be as a result of my youth and naivety) believe beauty is to be celebrated. I hold no qualms over telling my friends that they look gorgeous and I do of course expect the compliment to be returned (hint, hint girls). I may not approach complete strangers in Topshop to brighten their day with a “Wow, I love your shoes”, but I do appreciate and admire from afar simple or outrageous and individual style. If a person looks good, they look good. It shouldn’t be tainted by one attention-seeking journalist suggesting that by dressing to enhance your own beauty you are inviting hatred from the entire population of women – that is quite frankly, ridiculous. It’s not up to me to judge how “beautiful” Samantha Brick is, beauty is of course, in the eye of the beholder – but let me just say this: we as a female population should not let the words and arrogance of one individual influence the way we treat and perceive one another. “Hated because I’m beautiful”? I think Samantha may have to reconsider that particular tagline.

Something’s Got a Hold On Me

Etta James: 1938-2012
  – Music wouldn’t have been the same without her.

"The Devil’s Service"

‘All my years of education and it boils down to this:

“May I take your order?”’

This entirely appropriate magnet was a gift from “Santa” in my stocking this Christmas. I have experienced the profession of waitressing… And to be honest, I don’t particularly like it. In April last year it was less suggested by my parents and more told that I should be working over the summer break. Of course, being a University student the summer break isn’t the six weeks it used to be, but in fact an extended relaxing three months of sun, booze and adventures. Or at least that’s what it should be. In a brutal reality I found myself serving countless gammon steaks to the hungry population of Spalding.

Being a waitress has increased my empathy with fellow waiting staff – or as I like to call the profession: ‘The Devil’s Service’. Apparently, once members of the public walk through the doors of a food establishment they will, regardless of their usual personality and however pleasant they may first appear, become demanding and actually, slightly evil. As a “non-professional”, or perhaps more accurately “unprofessional” waitress, I began to pick up on all the annoying little habits we (and I am including myself in this generalisation) diners have while eating out.  

The international opinion of the British population is one of great esteem. We are portrayed within great American blockbusters as being none other than ‘posh’ – well brought-up, well-mannered and with a stiff upper lip. In short, the world conceives Britain as a country populated by Lords, Ladies, Dukes and Duchesses: a green Jerusalem in which everybody reflects a character from Downton Abbey. Please allow me to ruin this picturesque view of a well-mannered Isle. It turns out not everyone understands the concept of ‘table manners’. I have witnessed food-throwing, domestic arguments, gaseous “blow-outs”, and perhaps the most infuriating to waiting staff: the inability of the public to place their knife and fork correctly together when their meal has finished. I understand how this expression of infuriation may make me appear. However, I assure you all of my normality: I am not excessively neat (trust me, you only need to see my student house to believe this) and I don’t suffer from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. But please, members of the general public – understand my reasoning. Waiters and waitresses want to get you on your way as soon as possible, trust me we really do – but we are unable to do so if you insist on leaving your cutlery in such an obscure manner. If you look like you’re about to dig into that last remaining brussel sprout which has been sat lonesome and cold on your plate for 20 minutes, then I’m afraid you will have to endure the lengthy wait until a member of staff comes to remove your plate. And frankly – it’s your own fault.

While the manners of the general public leave much to be desired, their ability to know exactly what they want and how they want it will never be underestimated. It has been a running joke, and perhaps my only decent one that while working a shift at a restaurant, there will be at least five people who wish to adapt the menu to their own satisfaction. A “Pick n’ Mix” meal of sausages, steaks and jacket potatoes if you wish. Hardly a sign of connoisseur dining, I know, but despite my initial inner-sigh when I hear the words “I was wondering whether it would be possible…” I find myself becoming increasingly entertained by the obscure requests made by a seemingly normal customer. Thankfully this amusement overrides my small desire to just reply simply with a straight to the point: “No” – although, admittedly, not by much.

Waitressing is a tough job – people may laugh at you when you make this declaration, but it is always possible to spot the current or past waitressing staff within a large group of people. They have a heightened level of patience, their fake smile is almost so perfect it looks genuine, and their manners are impeccable. Although, perhaps the biggest giveaway is their willingness to tip well, as they undoubtedly feel a sense of duty towards their fellow service-people. A full day serving screaming, messy kids, forgetful yet loveable elderly parties, and rude, dismissive middle-aged couples can only be salvaged by the people who work with you: the people who you are allowed to roll your eyes at across the bar, and the well-dressed, impeccable-mannered people who could give the general public a few lessons in how to behave while eating out… Well, that and the £3 tip which the grateful lady with the extra bread roll on Table 21 left. So when you are next out at a restaurant (it doesn’t even have to be a fancy one) either alone, on a date or with a large group of friends, please remember the little people – the men and women who will be providing you with perfect service through gritted teeth and a near-perfect (fake) smile.