Demon drink – friend or foe, asks Ekaterina Tikoniouk…
Drunk people: another one of those things. Like overpriced vodka and those little gherkins, you can’t live with them and can’t live without them.
Drunks, at times, can be a necessary and a valued facet of university life. Almost everyone enjoys a good session or two, and drunks are what keep the party going until us sober folk catch up with the rest.
There is also a natural entertainment factor when a band of drunks get together to partake in michievous and clumsy happenings, which almost exclusively involve traffic cones.
However, that being said, there are times when you feel an almost irresistible urge to go out and beat them all soundly with a Teflon frying pan.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against drunken students, I myself often fall in to that category. But the problem is that after quite a few cheerful nights out, toddling home in a happy alcoholic haze and watching the sunrise, there eventually comes a time when a girl simply has to sleep.
And what stops that from happening? College drunks (and that damn infrared floodlight thing outside my bedroom window but I’ll leave that rant for another day).
Students get polluted, make noise, and get up to what seem at the time like weird and wacky antics. Which is all fine, but when you can hear the echoes of a raging houseparty floating up to your room at 4 am, you’re not going to be best pleased.
And the phone calls. Oh God, the phone calls. 3 am, my phone rings.
Long silence. “Wer in the shhquare.”
“Y’know, the shhquare.”
“Ish d’one wit the naked thingy.”
And if you thought that general intoxicated students were something, those UCD students fortunate enough to live on campus are in a whole league of their own.
Those of us living in residences have our own mixture of crazy characters, ranging from those who arrange their many empty beer cans in their windows to form the American flag to girls dancing on tables and drinking undiluted vodka out of a sippy-cup.
This rabble also includes that happy chappy who left the half-digested remains of his dinner on our doormat. Thanks dude. The wonderful aroma assaulted our noses for about a week until a maintenance staff member took pity on us and cleaned it up.
Our own Belgrove residence is also home to a mysterious poledancing character, who on numerous occasions has been caught, well… dancing around a pole. All very nice, but I’d prefer not to be woken up for the sake of watching some chap execute a triple spin on the streetlamp.
And last but not least, the less said about a certain streaker the better- the mental scarring will endure for a while.
So the message to my neighbours is this- stop it! Shut the hell up, stop poledancing and let me sleep. I mean it, I will personally kill the next person who turns up on my doorstep in the middle of the night, roaring drunk and demanding hot chocolate. You know who you are and you have been warned.