Arriving in freshers’ week on a dark and windy October day, it was obvious from the colourful array of 2015 leavers’ hoodies that the majority of people in first year had not taken a gap year. I was disappointed by the lack of anecdotes about overdosing from cocaine on the trail up to Machu Picchu or tripping so hard off magic mushrooms that Humphrey somehow transformed into a tiger and started biting into Horatio. These are but two examples of countless gap year stereotypes that abound throughout the first weeks of university, and I honestly don’t blame people for looking at such students with disdain – a lot of them deserve it. But despite the stigma, I can’t help but recommend taking a gap year; I didn’t ‘find myself’, but it was a valuable experience and even though I feel slightly older than the swathes of freshers that descend on Park End every Wednesday, it’s nothing that a double vodka and cranberry can’t fix.

August to December. These are the months where you wish you were already at uni. Applying for Oxford first time around was bad enough, with endless interview practice and revision for HATs and MATs. This time, you don’t even have the help of your old school teachers and with no lessons to go to, motivation to work is at an all-time low. For me, these months were characterized by a long and arduous FIFA 15 campaign where I managed to take Wycombe Wanderers from League 2 to the Premiership and frantically tried to remember who Tacitus was one week before my interviews.

As for interviews, it’s hard to say whether they were easier or harder second time round. You are a year older and that must count for something, but at the same time it depends on your situation. When I applied from school there was a lot of pressure to apply, even if you weren’t really keen on it. This put a lot of people off, and applying from my year out was easier, as I felt the build up to the interviews was more relaxed. Knowing your A level results is a plus as well, so long as they weren’t a complete disaster.

But rather than a gap year being a year of fun and games, it is possible to do something useful. The only other thing I was doing at this time was work, and I mean real work, not school work. Working at the NHS was probably one of the best things I did. The realm of clinical trials is a tornado of forms and spreadsheets and was an intense introduction to the world of work but it was rewarding. On a day-to-day basis, I met patients who lived locally and helped with the running of the hospital. I am not going to claim I was saving lives or go on about how working in a hospital really changed my life and that I now smile every time I see the sun – that would be bullshit. What it did do is give me a glimpse of what work is like, something that a lot of undergraduates have no real idea of until their first internship with Goldman Sachs or Credit Suisse. As great as those internships might look, they don’t give you the same experience of working somewhere for a prolonged time and are not reflective of a real job. I am not saying that because of four months of working at the NHS, I am far better prepared for starting work. It is just refreshing to know what having a job is like before you start your degree.

Cash in hand, I hopped on a plane to Florence and spent the spring trying to learn Italian. I was flying all the way to a foreign country, alone, knowing I would be without my family or friends for three months. Some kind people at the language school took pity on me and after a while I developed an interesting mix of friends. Some of them were European, originating from Paris or Copenhagen, and others were all the way from Mexico. After living in a bubble in England, it was refreshing to meet some people who were completely different to those I had grown up with. Living so far away from home was challenging, especially trying to explain to an Italian man that my washing machine had broken without knowing the word for washing machine and with water slowly filling my apartment.

Challenging though this was, it did make me more confident to be able to do things independently without needing the help of others. So when I got to Oxford, nothing seemed as daunting. I had done the living-away-from-home thing before and had met people from various different cultures – how hard could it be to introduce myself to other freshers? I was excited to go back into education. There is no doubt in my mind that this was the feeling I will remember most about my gap year. As fun as having a year out is, it does put everything into perspective and by the end of my time I was craving deadlines, essays and long reading lists.

Now, in my second term at Oxford, I am slightly less motivated, but if I had gone to uni straight from school, I know I would be craving a trip to Thailand by now.

So we are in February. We’re hardcore February now; we’ve actually made a commitment to this month. February is a time to continue complaining about the cold weather, the dark mornings and to review our New Year’s resolution (if we’ve stuck to it, that is).

For me, it’s the month where I can finally drink. Yes.This year I did what’s better known as ‘Dry January’. An entire month without alcohol after all the festive indulgence. I was one of those annoying people everyone looks at like an alien when you announce you’re not drinking because of some kind of ‘detox month’.

“What are you thinking?” people would ask (or at least imply by their raised eyebrows…)

You’re probably thinking that, now it’s February, I am jumping for joy at the thought of having a drink again. I know of other people who couldn’t wait for their own ‘month of hell’ to end. The last days of their January were spent staring hungrily at a Budweiser. Yet in reality, I couldn’t care less. Yes. I said it. Dry January, apart from giving my liver a rest from what was possibly the worst New Year’s hangover of my life, has shown me you do not need alcohol to have fun. It has also done wonders for my levels of energy and my bank statement, which were additional benefits I wasn’t expecting. Now, before you roll your eyes and reach for a tequila, hear me out.

Dry January is actually a very popular phenomenon – perhaps not amongst students, mind. Last January, more than two million people took part in the tradition and there’s even a whole website dedicated to the month, where people can sign up and fundraise for the registered charity Alcohol Concern. It was quite fitting that my first time doing this was also after the release of the latest medical guidelines on drinking. Men should now drink no more than 14 units a week – the same as women – and both sexes should not drink for at least a few days a week. The announcements became the headline of the national newspapers, one way of making the public feel worse about their festive indulgence! Nevertheless, the timing of this news came as perfect motivation as I prepped myself for Dry January.

The first time I declined a drink was on New Year’s Day with my family. Not really a big deal since the day was going to be quite tame anyway (sorry, parents, but your parties just ain’t that fun). The next time was post-collections. That was harder. After cramming in the library for practically the entire of 0th week, a drink was exactly what (I thought) I needed. As a finalist, some- thing has to get me through. Especially as the fresher mantra eat, sleep, rave, repeat (or the Oxford equivalent, eat, work, rave, repeat) can be no more.

I thought, am I going to have a good time if I don’t drink? Will I be sitting there completely lost on my friends’ drunken jokes? And yet, the outcome was rather different. Without alcohol, I had a pleasant night. An added benefit was I didn’t feel so sleepy either (which was also quite depressing… feeling tired after wine is surely a sign of impending old age).

The next ‘test’ was a friend’s birthday meal. Again, I had fun. People actually thought I was tipsy, which was somewhat amusing to say the least. Proof you can be silly and sober! Then there was another friend’s big 21st in London, which was a glamorous occasion to say the least, with free, unlimited alcohol. How on earth could I resist that? Well, I did. And again, the conclusion was I had just as good a time as if I had not drunk (and much clearer memories the next day).

I’ve never been a massive drinker – my friends always tease me for being a number one lightweight – and I think now I know why. Because I can have a good time without the alcohol crutch. Maybe it’s because I’m a bit extroverted – I know some people drink to come out of their shell more. But if that’s the case, you’re probably wondering why, then, do I drink? Two reasons. 1) To be sociable. It’s not quite the same ordering a virgin mojito in a bar. 2) To survive the below-part Oxford club nights.

A brief disclaimer: no, I didn’t go clubbing during Dry January. Entering the sweaty Bridge corridor without a trace of alcohol would have given me nightmares. Kudos to anyone who does go to Bridge sober – I admire you! The other benefit from resist- ing alcohol for a month was that I had more energy in the mornings and a slimmer waistline. My bank statement also came back looking more promising than it had done in a long time.

So, has the experience meant I am going fully teetotal? Hell no. I’m a student, and student-life only lasts so long! Getting ridiculously drunk every once in a while is fun – after all, that’s why we do it. Especially on a night out. However, I am definitely go- ing to cut down when I know I don’t need it. I’m going to Christ Church formal tonight, infamous for its boozy, raucous nights. I’ll have a glass or two, but I’m no longer in a mindset which I think many of us are guilty of: If I drink more, I’ll have a better time.

Having said all this, the next time you do see me drunk, please don’t bring up this article and accuse me of inherent hypocrisy. If so, I may just have to take your vodka and coke right off you. Cheers to that!

The other week I attended the Reeling Ball. Reeling, for those who are not Scottish aristocrats or didn’t go to public school, is an experience that I found I could only describe as ballroom dancing on speed and in kilts. As someone who had never reeled before, as I imagine many of you readers are, I was anxiously excited as to what the evening would have in store. Would all of the haggis-eating, whiskey-drinking stereotypes of Scotland hold true?

Was everyone in a kilt actually Scottish? How long would the free wine last? Alas, I should not have focused on such trivial matters as the ‘reel’ challenge was trying to learn the moves for each dance, whilst other people looked disapprovingly at my two left feet.

In all honesty, my friend who had invited me had recommended that I go to reeling practice. At the time, I didn’t appreciate just how helpful this would have been. As tempting as it sounded then, I quickly decided that I was too busy (an all too easy excuse in Oxford) and was floundering like a fish out of water from the outset.

The so called ‘Dashing White Sergeant’ was our first dance and this was the only one that I managed to pick up at all. I use the term loosely. I still wouldn’t attempt to perform it in public for fear of ridicule. Bustling with pride, we then began the next one which was where my reeling career, which up till this point had been close to stellar, went into decline. The first one was apparently notorious for being the easiest dance of the night and the rest would get increasingly harder, culminating in ‘The Reel of the 51st Highland Division’ which sounds more like a military exercise than a dance. The most terrifying thing about it is that you affect other people’s dancing. In Park End on a Wednesday my horrible dancing affects no one but me and maybe a few friends who have made the questionable decision to go to Park End. In reeling, everyone moves round the room and swaps partners every 20 seconds. I’m sure this is part of the fun – if you can reel.

However, if you can’t this is the most awkward part. Every new partner greeted me with a gleaming smile and an infectious enthusiasm for reeling. Unfortunately, I did not live up to their expectations; as a man, it was my role to lead the dance and as I had no idea what I was doing, nothing ever started well. Some of my partners took pity on me or offered a consoling laugh that relieved some of the tension. Others, however, did not see the funny side and were quite perturbed by my lack of reels.

About halfway through the evening I did in fact give up as not only was the embarrassment becoming unbearable but I was also exhausted from all the dancing. If there is one thing I can recommend about reeling, it is that it is a phenomenal exercise routine. Two avocados, a bunch of kale and an hour’s reeling are sure to keep the doctors away. Whilst I was sitting down observing the harmony of a perfect reel, I tried to console myself by reflecting on the shapes I could throw at a normal club. I then realised that in fact my normal dancing is probably worse than my reeling and that I essentially have one dance move to cover every type of music. The only difference is that my ‘normal’ dancing is usually complemented by the dark lighting of a club so no one can see it, whereas at the reeling ball I was practically an exhibit at the zoo for people to stare and pull faces at.

I have always found it odd that English nightlife is dominated by dancing. I have never been a keen dancer and I don’t know many people that love dancing, yet nonetheless thousands of people descend on Bridge, Wahoo, Plush or Cellar every week. So much alcohol is involved that people lose their inhibitions and before long a plethora of dance moves are hurled at the dance floor in a variety of ways. People such as myself stick with the tried and tested and rarely undertake new trends. However, the overriding feeling is that no one knows what they are doing on these anarchic WKD-fuelled nights, and even the best dancers don’t get to show their full arsenal of moves.

This chaos is not an environment I thrive in and this is where I missed a trick with reeling. If I had bothered going to the practices then I would have known the moves, which meant I would have actually been a good dancer. There are no surprises with reeling; the band is not going to fade from ‘The Dashing White Sergeant’ into an acoustic rendition of ‘Mr Brightside.’ You know what you are getting and this sense of security is something that is lacking from your usual night out. If I am ever invited back to the reeling ball, I will be sure to learn my reels.