Bexistentialism: HT16 3rd Week


It’s Saturday. Well, not right now, I know. I’m trying to set the scene here. For the purpose of this exercise, it is Saturday. I wake up, I yawn, I stretch, and I jump out of bed. “Hurrah” I cry, nervously through the morning air, as I pad to the shower, “It’s Saturday!”. To my optimistic mind that could mean only one thing. Booze, banter and debauchery.

As night falls, people collect in my room. We sit in armchairs and on beds and drink our tea-stained mixer out of tea-stained mugs. My ‘Pardee’ Spotify playlist isn’t doing much for the whole booze, banter and debauchery plan. We need a little spice.

My friend trundles off to her room to get a pack of cards. (Spicy, I know). But alas, she returns not with spice, but with dice. Technically she returns with die. But I enjoyed that little thing I just did there where I rhymed spice and dice. Sorry.

“I’ve made up a game!”, DieFriend announces, “It’s a question game!”. Five minutes later, I am not so sure it is going how she wished. I roll a six, and thus I must start the question “Would you ever” I predictably begin. The next to roll a six is DitzMate, and thus she must finish the question, “…ooh, I know!!! Touch a piece of mouldy food! Would you ever touch a piece of mouldy food?”.

We cruelly chortle. “DitzMate, mate, I don’t think you get the game. The questions have to be interesting.”

DitzMate bows her head. “That is interesting!”

We all look at her silently. “Okay, okay, I’ll make it better next time”. Someone answers the question, die are rolled. Once more I roll a six. I’m very talented at this game. “Have you ever…?”, I begin. Once more too, DitzMate rolls the second six. We look encouragingly at her. She smiles, she’s got it. She’s been thinking about this.

“Okay”, she announces, smugly, “have you ever…had an image in your head of a moose and a goose side by side?”.

I reach for my bottle of gin.

Soon we are sharpening our shapes, ready to fling them around a sweaty hired room. We arrive, and they are flung. Along with, it seems, my body. I find myself soaring sideways through the air into the boy’s toilets, by a gentleman who I once conversed with on a show I used to present. It was not a seduction attempt; he does not follow. I find myself amongst urinals, chatting with a fresher, whilst massaging my shoved shoulder, unsure of quite why I am here.

Thankfully, the night continues without being pushed through any more doors. I tire. Soon, I pull DieMate away from flirting with our aged college barman, and we head home. As I mopily hiccough, we spot a huddle of friends. It seems that a m8 has dropped someone’s keys down a drain. A wooden spoon and plate appear somehow in the hubbub, ready to measure the depth of the drain. The keys, apparently, will be found at whatever cost. This is confirmed as two people stick their arms down a drain, squelching through unidentifiable drain juice.

I tire more, and finish the walk home. The next morning, I sigh not just at my aching head. I’m growing old and boring, I think. I am becoming reliant on the soft comfort of my incredibly hard mattress.

Later, I see KeyDropper sitting in the JCR, with sleepless eyes, and a bandage covering her leg. I look down at my excellently working legs, and then back at hers. Her eyes fall on me. I try not to grin.


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