At the bottom of that glass

How do you know that you are a Fresher at Oxford University? 90% of my caloric consumption has come from alcohol. All I have to say is Beware of Pimm’s. A subtly sweet ginger like liquor mixed with Lemonade left me in some dodgy bar dancing on an ottoman and begging 18 year olds for cigarettes by the evening’s end.

I think I was even spanking someone.

Less than a week ago, I stepped off the plane with clear glowy skin, promises that I am reformed—an alter ego of “Shannon the bore” would take shape, and a commitment to excellence (i.e. keeping my room clean). What sits in front of the key board right now is a gal who is wearing the same jeans from yesterday, greasy hair, skin that resembles a Clearasil commercial’s before picture, in a room that looks like the closet threw up onto the floor. And of course we have take-away containers adding an additional touch of class, and funkifying my room.

I am in the midst of a Fresher’s week bender.

My liver is weeping as I type. Seriously, there is a shooting pain on the upper left side of my abdomen.

What is a better way to introduce us to life at the college than a pub crawl? And of course being the semi-pretentious wannabe snob that I am, I join the pub crawl in the Jericho section of town because the pubs are supposed to be a bit more “classy”. I think I am looking hot—jeans that are suddenly a bit too big (yea not eating), a cute turtleneck, and my beloved Burberry cashmere scarf. Easy make-up, a bit of gloss, I think I am rocking, looking cute and understated.

Except, looking cute and understated does not last long when you substitute Pimm’s for dinner.

After pub #1, a bunch of us who are really hungry head off to a chips shop. Since beer is cheaper than food in Britain, I just order a small order of fries. As I am getting ready to pay, I notice on the menu under sweets or whatever shit they call it here a deep fried mars bar.

Last time I was in London, Corinne and Pete were going to make deep fried mars bars. But as they didn’t have the flour to deep fry it in, the plan got nixed and instead we drank more champagne. But ever since I heard about this ubiquitous candy bar that epitomizes the struggle against heart disease, I had to try one—you know, as a lesson in cultural diversity.

As I am in a mood of mine, I start to make fun of shit and the Brits, and the mars bar. I wish I remembered more, but…yea, it’s one of those nights. Anyway, I offer a guy who is sharing the table with my pub crawl group some of the mars bar and it breaks the ice. Turns out it’s a professor! At the internet institute! From Harvard! Who is listening to me chat about Brits with missing teeth and every other stereotype I could play up.

What a nice way to say hello to a possible future colleague of mine?

We rejoin the remaining group after the excursion to the chips shop. Now, the next few pubs kinda suck. Except, that it gave me some insight into the Brits as these weren’t the traditional student pubs.

What I have learned:

1. All Brits have fucked up teeth. Well, the ones who didn’t go to Oxford University. But seriously, of all the “every day folk” we saw in their natural habitat, each one of them had snaggled teeth. As a girl who spent three very painful adolescent years in braces, I am just in awe. In awe really.

2. Pub Quizzes are taken very seriously. I was blessed/curse with this ability to say the most fucked up thing, then smile and do a high pitch laugh and make the dumb thing cute. Think Sarah Silverman but usually more vulgar. We walk into a pub in the midst of a bar quiz—you know, trivia night for drunkards. I getting on the verge of intoxication, and the emcee calls out a question, “What is the name of the wife who fathered King Henry the VIII’s first born?” Being in a jerky mood, and also because I legitimately thought he was reading the answers and not asking the question, I shout, “ANN BOLIN!”

The entire pub is silent.

I stand there smiling, and shrug my shoulders in that cute way I always do.

The entire pub is still silent. I feel this collective glare.

The emcee announces, “Ignore the girl with the silly scarf, she obviously doesn’t know her history.”

The people I am with make a bee-line for the exit. Nobody in the pub looks pleased with me. At all.

Keep in mind, my pub crawl group is also carrying a stolen umbrella. Not just any umbrella but the kind that is part of lawn furniture. It was pretty big, and if the townsfolk were to come after me, I don’t know if we could give up the umbrella and run.

Which leaves me to my third point:

3. Evidently, Burberry Scarves are a sign of “Chavs”, and one does not want to be associated with them. What is a chav? Well, I found out after one of my British newly found alcohol induced friends explained it to me: it’s the poor who blow their welfare money on flashy things.

Now wait a second. Granted, I was not making that much money back in NYC, and I have a small label whore addiction, but surely he couldn’t mean that I fell into that category?! I am cute, I am smart, I am funny, down to earth—any fucking quality that my landed English gentry future ex-husband would desire. I mean, I would even have a threesome for the right guy!

I am not a chav!

Just a gal from Long Island.

Actually, what I gathered about the scarf fiasco is that they buy the fakes and try to pass it off as real. And buying fake designer shit is a HUGE faux pas in my book. So maybe I am not a “chap” but still…who knew my scarf was a symbol of class warfare?

More pubs, more pimm’s, and I find myself drunk enough that I am disclosing what it was like to work as a dominatrix for an evening. And electrocute men.

I can only imagine the reputation I have acquired.

More drinks, and it’s midnight and the pubs are getting ready to close. The group disperses and of course I am begging for people to hang out, to continue partying. Three remain out of a group of like ten, and we head off to this club like thing that is really more like a cave—the purple turtle. I think the name says it all.

Grab some more drinks. Blow all of my cash in my wallet. And now here I sit, starving because I have no money to eat. And the kicker? I was supposed to go to the gym and start rowing last night instead of the pub crawl. My body is craving fresh veggies, water, and non-alcohol laden sleep.

Fuck, I’m hungry right now. I should go forage for food and open a bank account.