Guidance from a graduate

Arriving in Bristol in September 2014, I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect. I knew little of the city, save for its reputation for cider and Skins. Of the university I knew even less, only that James Blunt had once attended and rather liked it.

Four years living here went some way into correcting this. Student life tends to self-segregate as time goes by, and is informally, if discernibly, pulled into crowds of various ‘hearties’, ‘smarties’, ‘parties’ or ‘arties’.

The ‘hearties’ tend to be sports devotees who, whether in or outside the gym, seem to spend most of their time in branded gear proudly proclaiming their athletic credentials. Their collective raison d’être is the Wednesday sports nights, when they descend on some meat-market of a nightclub in cheap ties and expensive cologne.

The ‘smarties’, meanwhile, tend to enjoy the pretensions of intellectual life: holding court over a bottle of Sainsbury’s’ Yellow Tail Shiraz, they fiddle with their faux hipster glasses as they wax lyrical on Foucault.

‘Parties’ are generally found in the smoking area of Motion, sucking on a rollie has they talk breathlessly in husky tones and try to avoid dropping ash on their harem pants, wavy garms and dutty trainers.

And as for the ‘arties’, they congregate around the theatres, dressing extravagantly in their gap year purchases and spamming Facebook with plaintive requests to “Come and see our postmodern feminist improv show.”

Being attracted to drinking sessions and fond of my own voice, I quickly found myself drawn into the world of student journalism. Such a decision had its downsides: I probably threw away any chance of academic preferment and quickly amassed an eclectic list of enemies.

But it also meant that I got to see the best of university life in all its technicolour glory: the beer-soaked Varsity darts match when delirious Bristolians mobbed the stage after victory of the vanquished UWE; the medic charity strip show where Adonis-like beings gyrated to deafening cheers; the March for Mental Health where speakers choked back tears to speak of their struggles and above all, the many people I have met through pubs, clubs, halls and balls.

My time at Bristol gave me friends, memories and at the end of it all, a job – to my surprise, on the Daily Mail graduate scheme. I start soon, and I know that what I learnt here in Bristol will stand me well in my efforts to comprehend the somewhat, er, interesting times we are currently living through.

God knows I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and whilst they’ve landed me in hot water countless times, they often taught me invaluable lessons. Some of them were trivial – don’t attempt the infamous Cori Tap challenge the night before an exam. Some were farcical – don’t try to prove your sobriety to a Triangle bouncer by reciting every Prime Minister since the Second Great Reform Act, and others were somewhat obvious, but had to be experienced first-hand – don’t declare your undying love for a course mate in Freshers’, unless you want to spend the next three years awkwardly avoiding them.

But the single best piece of advice I could give to any student starting university would be: take care of yourself. The number of peers I have encountered who have suffered from some form of anxiety, angst, depression or disorder continues to shock and sadden me. Learn about your own wellbeing, how to recognise when you are feeling low, the symptoms of exhaustion and when the pressures of work and social lives are piling up.

In the end, few of the problems that are likely to affect you are truly unconquerable. Fail an exam and you can retake it; drop out of uni and you can re-do the year. Take care of your mind and body, because in the end, nothing is more important than that.

Otherwise, there is little I can say which will be of interest or use to the impatient and expectant young Fresher. Enjoy it whilst it lasts, and good luck with your endeavours.

James Heale is a University of Bristol history graduate