Columns Muse

Amy Gibbons: No Shits Gibbon

Archive This article is from our archive and might not display correctly. Download PDF
On the first morning of 2016 I dusted myself off from a particularly messy NYE, placed the shot-or-so dwindling in that fateful Smirnoff bottle opposite my bed (where it remains untouched), and vowed to partake in Dry January. David Cameron was still in power, and David Bowie was still alive.

Fast forward almost 16 months to the day, and I'm sober again; Donald Trump is leader of the free world; and Britain is on course to leave the European Union. We're pretty much guaranteed a Tory government for at least the next five years, and I've honestly never seen Dimbleby so tense. That scorpion on his back must be ready to pounce.

While the world is in turmoil, my life has been standing pretty still. Antibiotics have meant I'm off the sauce for nine days (by the time I submit this column I'll have just 24 hours to go - party at mine btw, 9pm BYOB), and I think I've finished (given up on) my dissertation.

I'm booking my Summer Ball ticket today, and I just confirmed some work experience at the end of May. I also have a qualifying course sorted for summer. To the outside world, I must seem pretty together. How very, very dull.

In reality, as is always the case, I have some shits to give. So listen up.

In my final term at York I haven't been short of inspiration. The sun's emerging almost once a fortnight; Courtyard's opening hours are back to normal; and the baby geese are in that really adorable stage, right between fluffy lump and half-formed hissing canon. But what better place to start than Roses, seeing as we have just beaten the Lancastrians yet again, and proudly yield the trophy until next year.

Roses is a fantastic celebration of University sport and inclusivity in competition. At the opening ceremony we were treated to an exhilarating York comeback; impressive performances from the York Hornets and Dance Society; and various attempts at baskets by members of the crowd after free club tickets, including the likes of outgoing Sports Pres Isaac Beevor (but like, he doesn't even go here!).

One Twitter user wrote: "Great to see so many societies involved in this ceremony. All included at #roses2017", and the tangible enthusiasm of the crowd only served to emphasise the cohesive feeling. I for one took a while to get myself together afterwards, but that might have been because I was sitting on the floor. I also managed to accidentally tweet once with the hashtag #Roses instead of #Roses2017, and was retweeted by two florists.

My typical blunders aside, it's important to note that the Sports Centre will soon give way to a saturated silent section in Morrell; and that means exam season.

Ah yes, an onslaught of Nisa falafels and library takeaways; no wonder I saw Domino's on campus yesterday. For real though, nobody likes this part. The comedown from a celebration like Roses - especially when it's at home - is rather like that feeling you get deciding to leave the club queue alone at midnight, buzzing off Dusk's 241 weekday cocktails, knowing you have a 9am group presentation the next morning (actual events that have happened to me).

So, how can we motivate ourselves now? Well I'd recommend my usual home remedy of overeating, retail therapy, procrastination, and denial, but you'd probably call me sarcastic. So how's this for an idea: we all call a general election.

We're not doing brilliantly, so we'd appreciate a distraction; and an increased vote of confidence can only do us good, right? Pass me the ballot.

Latest in Columns