For a long time alcohol has been prevalent in the life of many an undergraduate. This may have to do with being away from home but more likely comes as a result of having comparatively very little to do, and not having to get out of bed in the mornings. Whatever the reason, they are synonymous with the activity, probably because we do a lot of it. Like it or not it’s an integral part of many of our lives. Even in the lift in one of the university buildings today I noticed a poster advertising an event promising to give its attendees a good soaking.

            Last week The Courier reported on a sports celebration at Bar 42 that turned into a sort of depraved simian frenzy, with glass and fixtures being tossed about in the drunken revelry, defecating in drinks and, reportedly, someone eating someone else’s sick. Recently I was sent an (understandably) angry email from an agitated member of staff who had found the School of Modern Languages postgraduate common room in a similar state; rubbish and debris everywhere, and someone had defiled the bin. What is it with getting hammered and shitting in things? A psychology student may know better than I (just so you know, I have no idea where the common room is).

            But I’m not going to go into how we shouldn’t drink, in spite of these incidents. What we ought to do is look out for one another while we’re at it, so that any rogue bad eggs don’t get the chance to start throwing faeces and vomit for someone else to clean up after them. Or, more importantly kids, so that nobody gets hurt. A friend of mine when we were about 17 got hideously drunk and left a party without anyone knowing, and on the way home wrapped his car around a telephone pole. Luckily he didn’t run anyone down and the only thing that got damaged was the car. Another friend decided with a bit of Dutch courage to pit his wits against Newcastle’s frosty conditions in the dead of winter, and went about performing handbrake turns in his car. The police took exception to this. Both lost their licences, and both felt pretty foolish about it. Had a friend or two taken the role of angel on the shoulder they may not have done it.

            As for me: at the end of one night last year I found myself alone when the club was closing, and unable to pay for a taxi I started the half hour walk home through the bleak midwinter cold. Halfway, power-walking across a footbridge I slipped in a pool of someone else’s yet unfrozen vomit and landed squarely in its centre. I fairly ran home, cursing my abandoning friends and the supplier of the sick. A very bad night in all. You see what happens when we abandon one another? There’s a lesson to be learned here I feel.