TCD Miscellany IV

Right so. If anyone doesn’t know, I’ve been the back-page columnist for TCD Miscellany this year. The final issue of the year has just gone out this week. I’ve really enjoyed writing for the magazine. Special thanks to the editor, Conor, for doing such a great job with it. I’ve always had complete faith when sending in my column, and for me, that’s saying something.

My first article is here, the second here, and the third here. Enjoy.

Miscellany IV

So here we are. The final column of the final Miscellany of the year. I’m starting to worry. The end of year exams are drawing near. All year I’ve been telling myself how I’ll be getting my act together soon.

‘Just after I go out this weekend, then I’ll start studying!’

‘Ah sure, I’m too hungover today, it can wait ‘til tomorrow.’

‘ There’s too much snow this month, it’s a month for tracksuit bottoms and two pairs of socks, not the library and essays!’

And now I’m fucked.

Too many tutorials have passed by with me being the gormless mute at the back. Sitting there, open-mouthed, gawping in amazement at the amount of stuff other people know. How do they know all these things? How do they know about politics? Why don’t I know about these things? Why have I spent my college life drinking and wanking my days away, instead of reading? Why do I consider a productive day to be one where I’ve cut my nails, had a shave and gotten a good rest?

Sometimes people have made jokes in reference to political happenings and everyone in the room laughs. I sit there trying to smile as if I know what the joke is. There’s one tutorial like this where everyone’s great, but then there’s me and one other girl who never really contribute. I appreciate her so much. Having someone else to look at and think “well, at least I’m not the only one”. So in a recent tutorial, I sat beside her at the back. The class begins as normal, everyone talking and answering questions, except me and her. Then we move on to discussing school exchanges and whether they have any sort of impact on international relations. She exclaims that she went on one of these EXACT exchanges we were talking about, and begins telling the class all about it. She’s one of them now. One of the knowledgeable ones.

I’ve never felt so betrayed in my life. My partner in ignorance leaving me in my sordid little pit of silence, all alone except for the poor company of my own fading dreams and wasted potential. Selfish cow.

I have started to make an effort though. I went to the library one Sunday. It was Sunday the 14^th of February actually. A very romantic Valentine’s day I had. On the bus home I looked around and everyone was by themselves. I felt sorry for all these people, all alone on a romantic day like that. Then I realised I was one of them. I reckon that if I’d tried to initiate an orgy at that point, nobody would have declined. But how does one initiate an orgy? Do you start with one person and hope others just dive in, or do you make some sort of declaration to everyone? We got to my stop before I could come up with a plausible solution.

I’ve also begun playing the odd bit of five-a-side football. I played football for my local team for ten years, then just lost interest. To this day I regret quitting, and still often have dreams where I’m back playing. So I like a bit of five-a-side so I can see if I’ve still got it. You see, of all the men who’ve played football, not one of them ever truly stops believing that someday he’ll play for his country. Obviously, I know I won’t, but I don’t believe I won’t.

There’ll come a day, when my grandchildren pay me a visit in my hospice, and I’ll be propped up, all withered and yellow and listless, smelling of piss. As they spoon some baby food into my mouth, they’ll ask me if I’m feeling alright. I’ll tell them I’m not, because I woke up that morning and finally realised that I really am probably never going to captain Ireland in a world cup match. I imagine I’ll die the following morning, of a shattered heart.

The five-a-side is good though. I do still have it. I change into my tracksuit bottoms with the hole in them, stick on the runners, take a swig of Lucozade, and trot onto the pitch (the small little indoor place) and play my heart out. Closing down, tackling, through balls, cheeky back-heels.

For about five minutes.

The following 55 minutes involve me doing whatever I can to stop myself from vomiting, and clutching my sides with a stitch. What the fuck is a stitch anyway? Just fuck off you weird little pain.

Before I tackle exams, I have my birthday to deal with. This year, my birthday falls on Good Friday. Now, I know there’s been an earthquake in Haiti, and thousands of people are suffering. I know about 9/11, and how many lives were lost and how some people had to throw themselves from the towers to avoid being killed in the inferno. I know all about the degradation and segregation minorities have suffered throughout the centuries. I know there’s been concentration camps in which millions have suffered and died. I know about all sorts of horrors and plights.

But do any of these people know what it feels like to have your birthday fall on a day when the pubs are closed? I think not.

On the upside, I’ve managed to avoid the illnesses that everyone else seems to have gotten. I sit bewildered in lectures as everyone coughs and sneezes. Baffled as I watch people projectile vomit over each other. Bemused as limbs are falling off people left, right and centre. You’d think this is a good thing, but now I’m just worried that this is a brief respite from illness, building up to something serious.

So that’s it. This is the final paragraph of the final column of the final Miscellany of the year. I should end it with something reflective and nice. Some food for thought perhaps. Instead I’m just going to say tits, scrotum and clunge.

If you enjoyed this post, make sure you subscribe to my RSS feed!