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Georgia Marsh inhabits the psyches of four Bristolian student stereotypes.

Stereotypes, though they can be offensive and damaging, are nonetheless rife in all strands of society – including at our (and as in any) university. I decided to try on these different Bristol stereotypes to see where life would take me. Will I blend in with the crowd or stick out uncomfortably like that putrid sick smell at The Berkeley?

Weekend rudeboys

It’s Wednesday night – because mid-week ragers are all that bit more muuuuuuaaaadddddd – and I am ready for Lakota. I’m not sure who’s playing, but the Facebook event (which, of course, I’ve clicked ‘going’ to, because my entire feed – including my grandparents who live in Suffolk – need to know that I am out tonight!) promised copious amounts of bassline. Two years in Bristol and I’m still not entirely sure what that is…

Ironically, my selective memory fails to recall how I used to bully youth from the council estate in my local village for dressing exactly how I do now.

Staring at my wardrobe, I throw on the ensemble that feels most natural to me: my Adidas tracksuit, my second skin. Ironically, my selective memory fails to recall how I used to bully youth from the council estate in my local village for dressing exactly how I do now. To remain true to my roots, I slip on my signet ring.

Find me front row in the main room, suited and booted in my bucket hat and recording the set on Snapchat. My jaw swings from side to side, I shout “LENNNNGGGGGGGG!” and wave my gun fingers around. I leave just before three and argue with my friend on the way home – he just doesn’t understand the incongruity of Labour’s financial policies: socialism is not economically viable, and that’s why I vote Tory.

To remain true to my roots, I slip on my signet ring.

Passive-aggressive environmentalists

Apparently my hareem pants and bindis are culturally inappropriate, but please don’t assume I didn’t actually get them from my gap year in Thailand. Have I mentioned my gap year before? Thailand was stop number two – I also travelled to Rwanda to work with an ethically dubious charity to help them rebuild a village. By rebuild a village, I mean I got there and complained it stank and cried because there was poor wifi. No one has to know the bad bits: I took loads of cute pictures with African children and I raked in hundreds Facebook likes.

Your body is a temple – how could you even consider consuming animal by-products?

My diet is sugar-free, gluten-free and vegan AF (except on a Tuesday night post-Lola Lo’s when I can’t resist a Taka Taka Magic Roll. I’m drunk – it doesn’t count!). You’re not vegan? I mean, that’s your choice, but do you, like, not care about the treatment of cows in the dairy industry? Aren’t you worried about all that cheese you’re addicted to clogging up your arteries? If you think about it, milking cows is utterly perverse. Your body is a temple – how could you even consider consuming animal by-products?

Returning from an anti-fossil fuel process, I cycle to my dealer’s house in Redland to pick up some coke for The Black Swan tonight. My sub-conscious is trying to remind me how unethical the substance is and how it’s more-or-less responsible for the corruption and destruction in impoverished countries like Columbia, but I need to concentrate on the unjust gradient of St Michael’s Hill. As droplets of perspiration drip from my beet red forehead, I can’t help but wonder if all this sustainable malarkey is worth it.

You’re not vegan? I mean, that’s your choice, but do you, like, not care about the treatment of cows in the dairy industry?

London via Stoke Bishop

After 30 minutes of traipsing through ASOS on my Macbook, I decide it’s time to take a break from this relentless study. Strolling into the ASS Café, I see a fair few people I know – so much so that I struggle to choose who exactly to sit with. I love Bristol because it’s basically a mini London and I haven’t really had to bother with making any new friends.

Pulling on my pink puffa (each of my tight-knit group have the same one in different colours #squadgoals).

Just before I tuck into my Tupperwared lunch, an iMessage comes through on my rose gold iPhone. It’s from Sophie who – OMG! – wants to meet for brunch. Although my leftover spaghetti bolognaise (Mama Bear left me 5 boxes of frozen meals when she dropped me off) looks dreadfully appealing, who am I to turn down crushed avocado on sourdough toast with a side of smoked salmon? Pulling on my pink puffa (each of my tight-knit group have the same one in different colours #squadgoals), I say a heartfelt and sad goodbye to my girls (“miss you already, babe!”) – I won’t see them until later tonight when we all reconvene at The White Rabbit – and congratulate myself on how hard I’ve worked today and how deserving I am of a divine brunch.

I love Bristol because it’s basically a mini London.

Society bitches

Oh my God, has anyone ever told you how stressful it is being in a society? It’s not the end of the world, and although I acknowledge somewhere deep down that it is certainly insignificant in the wider scheme of things, I literally feel like the world is collapsing around me. My life is a crisis and everybody’s going to hear about my society and its problems: my house, our circle of friends, my extended circle of friends (the majority of whom are on the committee with me, obviously), my neighbour, and his dog. Most people come to uni to complete a degree, yet I have come to find it is the least of my problems when I have a society to run.

Society stardom comes at the price of becoming a stranger to my own friends. Goodbye First Year friends: I’ve moved onto greener pastures.

Did I mention I am running a committee? Although, not to toot my own horn or anything, but I have climbed the societal hierarchy and now am sort of a BNOC (except not really because no one cares about societies except for the people in the societies. I, a society bitch, have still not realised this.). Society stardom comes at the price of becoming a stranger to my own friends. Goodbye First Year friends: I’ve moved onto greener pastures (the media suite on the fourth floor of the SU). Now they only catch a fleeting glimpse of me on Thursdays sardined on the Mbargos dance floor, dressed in some ridiculous costume that slightly panders to a theme ordained by a stressed-out social sec in the desperate need for everyone else to have a good time.

 


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