There are many things that one regrets in life. Not brushing your teeth after a night out. Forgetting to buy milk. Ignoring emails about overdue books. Touching your eyes after chopping onions. Not telling your cat you love them before your mum takes them to the vet to be put down because of their twisted gut. Sure, regret plagues the everyday schedule of an everyday human.
But regret is served up in different portion sizes. And Park End is an All-U-Can-Eat buffet. Despite this unquestionable and well-known fact, and due to the fact that humankind is programmed to hate itself, from the occasional Wednesday to every Wednesday, we find ourselves there.
“Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. How the FUCK did this happen?” you roar. But the cry is lost. Lost in the air which is already brimming over with thousands of similar cries. The air in Park End sucks everything out of you, starting with your sobriety and ending with your soul. And that is why, for my final ‘How To’ of this term, I leave you with some crucial advice. Advice that you will need for the next however many years you have left in Oxford.
If someone invites you for a night out at ‘Lava & Ignite’, DO NOT GO. This is Park End’s alter-ego. It exists under two names so that it can morph into something different. When you decide you hate Park End, it morphs into Lava Ignite, and vice-versa; back and forth it flings its identity. The metronomic swing acts as hypnosis for your foolish mind. The first rule is to always say no to either. I don’t care if it actually sounds quite exciting, like a little volcano bubbling. Lava burns. Remember that. There is a reason that the anagram for Lava Ignite is ‘A Giant Evil’.
The nine circles of hell are compacted into the three floors of dance. Rules of three and all that. Bad music swiftly loses its genre, and so the three floors are unrecognisable from each other. But Gluttony, Wrath, Violence, Lust – you’ll catch ’em all. Like a dystopian Pokemon. Dante describes it best, “I saw multitudes / to every side of me; their howls were loud / while, wheeling weights, they used their chests to push. / They struck against each other.” The parallel is unquestionable, as you shimmy amongst infinite carnal malefactors.
Wait. Hang on. SEE! LOOK AT ME! I haven’t even begun to properly advise you yet. Park End can entrap you even beyond its perimeters. But that’s fine, because my advice is simple. As Taylor Swift flings herself, like a leech, onto your face and sucks, as ‘Teenage Dirtbag’ stings your leg like an unrelenting jellyfish, do not prod it with your finger, or get a friend to pee heroically on your leg. As ‘We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together’ slices through your soul, RUN. Run as fast as you can. Don’t look back. Don’t stop as your friend shouts, “Wait, I love this song.” Sprint as fast as your stung legs can take you. And only when you have swallowed your last chicken nugget, brushed your teeth, and snuggled under your duvet, are you free.
