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Bexistentialism HT15 Week 4

My boxer friend had spent months weighing food, forgoing alcohol, and complaining  a lot. So this week, I found myself at the Varsity Boxing Competition. On learning he would be fighting near the end, we decided to head off to the Union Bar. Drinks clinked, and we sank rapidly into consuming a quantity of alcohol large enough to rival the Pacific Ocean. A housemate cried, “Does anyone want any Balti mix?”, swiping the pack from the bar and thrusting it around the hubbub.

Fortunately, just as the bar manager’s face swelled and turned bright red, my friend got called up for the fight. No drinks allowed inside. Drunken Bex waddled in with dismay. The fight began. Fists collided. I burrowed into jackets. And then it was over.

And then, time blurred and accelerated. Somehow, I was in purgatory. Minutes, maybe seconds, maybe hours, but at least not days, later, I, in the midst of intoxication, managed to recognise the true location of Hell – in Park End.

Are-We-Mates-Mate sat on a chair, staring into his hands as he moped, whilst the other guy, Mate-Who-Isn’t-Really-My-Mate-Either, glared at us in a similar fashion. People were screaming and shouting all around us and in a flash, I remembered the last time I went to Park End.

I had decided to wear shoes which I knew from the outset were broken and then claimed to have sat cross-legged on the floor, causing the heel to snap. Each time a friend attempted to help me up, I would look down at my shoe, and then sit once more, as if ashamed of my obvious lie.

But as I continued to fall into the abyss of resignation that is Park End, I suddenly decided that enough was enough. I left the two third-year-pseudo-mates, and fled. As I gasped for breath, restored to reality once more, I saw the Boxer and his girlfriend. The Boxer’s face, even with bruises and cuts from the evening’s sport, has never looked more angelic.

They soared towards me and I exhaled. Soon we were snugly walking, hand in hand. We pit-stopped at Hassan’s. Each holding polystyrene, we dozily began the final trail home. We popped our clams open. But mine didn’t contain the chicken nuggets I asked for. We turned to look at Hassan’s. The queue is huge. “There’s no point even trying,” said the Boxer. I look back down at my ten angry onion rings.

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