Bartending has ruined numerous things for me*, including but not limited to my social life, Tinder dates, the illusion that two-for-one cocktails will actually get you drunk, and everything I was wearing the time I spilt 135 mL of flaming Chartreuse down myself.
I am, however, enabled prime observational opportunity of the extremities of human behaviour, from the painfully sober side of the bar. I have been privy to the mating rituals of middle-aged couples grinding on each other against bar stools, have witnessed drunk first year girls solicit kebabs from complete strangers, and have deflected the slurred seductive attempts of every straight male to pass the threshold. Tip me and perhaps I’ll endure your mindless rambling for an extra 30 seconds, but no, sweetheart, despite your claim that you have lost your number, you cannot have mine.
I have also adapted the acute ability to spot freshers from 800 metres away. My spidey senses begin to tingle ferociously when a pack of first years stumbles down Forrester’s Lane, preempting the cacophony of screeches and tequila shot requests destined to erupt upon their arrival.
How to disguise the fact that you live in a hall:
Don’t wear white sandals to town (or in any context whatsoever). For more advice see my previous column “White Sandal Girl”.
Avoid shrieking. Please, for the love of God, do not shriek.
If you own one of those atrocious fold-over skorts that looks like a fancy napkin, ritualistically burn it.
Playsuits. Specifically those ghastly, shapeless ones with the scalloped shorts and stupid little pompoms. They are so incredibly frumpy and unflattering. On everyone.
T-shirt dresses. Honestly, ew. Love yourselves.
If you’re going to snog strangers, by all means go wild, but be sure to remove the tell-tale lipstick smudges from around your mouth (and nose). Not a gr8 look. (As someone who has had to taxi her flatmate from home to the bathroom of Edison’s with emergency makeup supplies to avoid this scenario, stay woke.)
__________
*Disclaimer: I am however now immune to the eternal question “Is he hot or is it because he’s a bartender?” He is merely the supplier of alcohol. The allure is gone. (Unless aforementioned alcohol is free, in which case he is a fabulous human being and here is my number, looking forward to never returning your calls or to this bar.)