Crime: it’s not for everyone..

Bristol is still just as fun as last year. We went to a fresher’s party on campus the other day, but by the time we reached the front of the queue of cocky first years, they had started a ‘one-in-one-out’ policy. We were furious, and desperately tried to find a way in. To our right was the disabled lift, the destination of which we knew not..

We sidled out of the queue, cool as anything, and began to examine the lift entrance. Having glanced around to estimate possible detection by ‘security’ men (fat men), we pressed the forbidden button. We were not only sneaking in to the building, but we were also not disabled. A fearfully criminal hour of our lives.  As the doors closed on us in our illegal elevator, a thousand pairs of fresher eyes watched with fear as we began to ascend into the unknown..

Fourth floor. The doors opened and we were frozen. The coast seemed clear, so we ran into the nearest available room: the girls toilets.  It’s a good thing nobody discovered our presence here, as two boys and two girls drunk in a deserted toilet would not have shone in our favour.  Having had some water and calmed our beating hearts, we emerged once again from the toilet.  It did not take us long to realise that there were no parties on this floor, just the faint aroma of paperwork.  We decided to try a different floor..

Second floor.  We had reached our destination.  We could hear the awful thumping of ‘youthful’ music that is only bearable when intoxicated; I think someone like ‘Professor Green’ or some other vulgar ‘artist’ was playing.  So we stepped out of the lift, incredibly pleased with ourselves that we had managed to successfully sneak in to this party.  We began to run down a small set of stairs towards the noise.  I was at the back, and arrived last on the scene. On the landing below, I saw before me a really rather fat man with a badge on (‘security’) talking to my friends ahead of me. As I advanced, one of them approached me.  I must say I really was very drunk, and so whatever she said in her own drunken gabble, I automatically assumed to mean: ‘This man is going to let us in to the party, follow me!’ I was thrilled! I walked up to the man, and gave him a shake of the hand to show my gratitude, followed by: ‘We are really grateful for this, thankyou my good man!’ He looked at me with, what can only be described as an odd look in his eye. I decided to hurry myself along, and followed my friends.

At this point, it became clear to me that the fat man was not our friend, and had in fact asked us to leave. We were now outside, and it was raining. As a last effort to make it to the party, I ran back past him as fast as I could, and consequently into the photography area directly behind the stage.  Here, I greeted the confused photographers with ‘Oh hello, I’m a photographer too!’.  They MIGHT have bought it, but I did not have time to check, as I was chased down past the stage by one fat man, and greeted by another fat woman.

It’s fine, I like the outdoors.



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