I left university with a few extra letters after my name, twelve extra kilograms of meat joined to my bones, and several thousands pounds worth of student loans attached my bank account. Using the power of logic I came to the conclusion that losing weight would be easier than losing my debts.
The weight loss regime started straight away: instead of drinking beer, or whiskey, I had the same drink as my stick thin girlfriend. Sadly the lemon juice in a margarita doesn’t count towards your five a day, and even though I looked fabulous drinking Cosmopolitans, I didn’t suddenly become eligible to work at Abercrombie and Fitch.
So I gave up drinking. Temporarily. The plan was to have a merrily teetotal September, and then partake on special occasions for the rest of the year. Luckily for me, I have a supportive family that would surely support me in my quest to lose weight.
On the first night my Dad opened up a rather fine bottle of Balvenie 14 Year Old Caribbean Cask. This fine malt happens to be my favourite whiskey. I resisted, despite having to watch him drink it with Soda water, Coca-Cola, and a whole range of other mixers designed to infuriate me.
A few nights later he arrived home from work with a bottle of 2004 Grand Vintage Moet & Chandon Champagne; he looked me in the eye whilst eagerly mixing, what would have been my glass, with orange juice in order to make world’s most ridiculous Bucks Fizz.
Lastly, he asked me to meet him at a pub on the way back from work. The pub seemed to be hosting some sort of private function; walking in I received some pretty puzzled looks. Undeterred I waited at the bar and ordered my drink, a Lime Soda, and received an even weirder look from the barman. It was only when he was pouring my drink, and as I was looking around to try and see Dad, did I see the flyers scattered around the pub: it was a National Front meeting.
I hastily drank my drink and exited stage left to phone my Dad: turns out he was in the pub across the road because, quote: “it was too busy in the other place.” He did reassure me that the idea of using white nationalists to peer pressure me into drinking wasn’t his; it was my mum’s.
I suppose I deserved it. She did try and hand back a stack of pizza boxes, to a Dominos delivery driver, because I told her they paid 50p for each returned box they could reuse.
Since then, I have suffered a self imposed exile in my room, as I fear what the next step in the ‘let’s get William drunk, or killed’ plan is, and have only emerged for my driving lessons.
Which is completely stupid. I’ve managed to inherit all the bad traits of my parent’s respective ethnicities, but none of the good ones. My teeth are the reason American’s fears a British style healthcare system, and my driving is more Asian than Bruce Lee punching a Panda right in its comically small penis. I’d be better off facing my parent’s attempted infanticide based pranks.
Saying that, I’ve enjoyed my driving lessons. My instructor is the most patient, and fearless, man I have met and the two hours I spend in the car are deeply therapeutic, especially after a hectic twelve-hour day at work.
However, the fact that my weekly highlight reel consists of several clips of me stalling a car, when attempting to Parallel Park, makes me appreciate just how awesome university was. Not to mention just how sad I am that I’m not heading back to Portsmouth for just one more year.
Pompey, I miss you.