I've got the keys to the door, never been 21 before *hic*

Thought I might add a little update to old Orange and talk about a specific date that lives in infamy in my memory. Or rather that is to say, parts of it do, those parts I can remember. The date in question is Wednesday November 25 1992. Or, as the legends now recall it, Mudos' 21st birthday.

Your 21st is a big event, and it irks me somewhat that I have little memory of much of that day. To be honest, I am hoping that the telling of my jigsaw recollections might jog some memories and I'd welcome any additional information any Orange Orderists (thats you) might be able to add to the pot.

As I said, the 21st birthday is a major moment in the University life of a young hound such as me, and to have that birthday in term time, ensconced in the hallowed surroundings of South Stoneham House, and on a Wednesday (clearly a fine drinking day) was fortuitous in the extreme. Fortuitous in Extremis, as hackneyed Latin types would have it.

The facts, as I recall them then, are as follows. I know that my friend Suzanne came down for the night, and for that very thing, amongst many others, she royally rocks. I have a sneaking suspicion I might have not gone to the station to pick her up because I have a vague recollection of having started drinking in the JCR (Junior Common Room to thee and me, Bar to everyone else) whilst we played a number of games of pool and Sue turning up through the door.

Now, by the time we had hit my 21st, Stoneham Bar had gone the way of the Dodo - brutally murdered by a combination of incompetence, incontinence and being run by drunk students. Death by PissAdventure, as the coroner's report read. Therefore the main thrust of the evening was over in Monte Bar (The 2 Guys, Simon and Colm running it, iirc?? Guy B - you'll remember)

Much as I hate to admit it, Monte bar was a pretty funky little hole in this guise - just the right level of ricketiness to be probably unsafe in a modern context, with a fine view out the window of what tail might be coming - or, for those of us who had left their sick bed with flu to have a sneaky drink or 5, to see when trouble in the shape of girlfriends or friends of girlfriends and such like were on the warpath (different story, sorry I digress). Much funkier it was then the behemoth it became in the next academic year when, in gratitude for some bailing out of Stoneham, Monte got a swanky new bar with a built-in DJ booth and a pair of boots 5 sizes too big for every resident.

So, there we were, en masse, celebrating. Of the actual events in Monte bar that night, I have firm recollection of only two - I know there was a yard of grendel but alas, I have no idea how many of the target 42 units for the night were in it, or ended up in me. There was also a pinball table behind the seats we sat in which was piled high with glasses (obviously we weren't sipping tea from china cups). I made a speech. That is to say, I tried to make a speech. When I say 'try', I mean stood on a stool, mumbled something and I remember fosberry flopping onto the pinball table. That, however, is the extent of my memories of the night in Monte. Any further snippets would be welcomed. And, 18 years on, not as embarassing as, say, 17 years ago.

After Monte, we returned to Stoneham. I'll be honest, I have only snippets of memory from this point. There was definitely champagne and several people in my cramped cell, sorry, room. I only know Doug set the fire alarm off because he was clearly a toast making dingus and I have been told many times since that Doug set the fire alarm off by making toast. We got shouted at by someone - could have been a fireman, could have been Gerry the sub-warden, hell it could have been Penry, the mild-mannered janitor.

Next thing I know, I am cold and we are outside. I'd like to think I got us out of Hyde-Prices bad books by my silver tongue. I have an awful feeling though that I just hugged him and mumbled it was my birthday and he wasn't allowed to be angry with me. Oh the lofty skills of the bard.

The next day, I was shamefully hungover. Not just hungover but utterly incapable of activity. Not only had I failed to collect Sue from the station, my attempt to walk her back got as far as Connaught corner of Wessex Lane, at which point I told her I had no choice but to go back to bed and gave fairly useless directions to the airport train station. Not hating me forver for being a useless twonk is another reason Suzanne has always, and still does, rock. It is entirely possible I went drinking again that night.

That's it. That is all I remember of my 21st birthday. Anyone who remembers any further tidbits will be rewarded with a hearty handshake and thanks. Let's be honest here though, we had a good craic at Uni ;)

It's all about the red letter days

One of the key features of the three years I spent at Southampton University was that it is a self-contained period of haze in the memory banks, whereby even the rememberance of it is enough to slur the words and start the giggle loop running. However, even in the rarified atmosphere of a 24/7 rizz-razz-rise circuit, there was room for red letter days. Times and events that stand out from the rest, things at the time to be looked forward to with eagerness and remembered now with winsome fondness.

Stoneham would put on an annual fireworks extravaganza, with an expensive and memorable display and band/disco/booze entertainment. Being elevated to the peerage in my first term (actually being elected Social Secretary which I held on to for the following year), I had the honour of being responsible for this event. I say responsible, that is the technical term for it, although I took it as a supervisory-in-absence role. Having said that, I am not prepared to confirm or deny whether I skived off the manual grunt work of setting up the stage and such like and got bombed off my rocker at the Dorchester all afternoon. No, the manual work was very much for willing volunteers and the rest of the JCR committee, it was my unfortunate fate to take the plaudits when it all went swimmingly.

Before you judge me too harshly though, let me just say this, there are not many heros like me in the world who at a later Stoneham event not only stayed sober till midnight (mainly due to the equivalent of a court martial from the ratbags on the JCR), but rescued hundreds of delightful wenches who could not pee due to the blocking of all the ladies toilets. Oh the joy of unblocking three loos worth of used tampons, bog roll and errata. Thanks girls, seriously, a real highlight for me that was. Particular thanks as well to Dave the bouncer who sought me out to deal with it.

Of course, notwithstanding the various events at ours and the other halls, there were the Balls. There's an art to going to a ball, with the bars open until 5am, you're always going to struggle to make it to dawn if you go at it hell for leather from 9pm. Having said that, we did alright! Oh for the days when we were young and lithe enough to slip into a Tux and not have to worry about having put a few pounds on since it was last worn, and the days when every girl looked a million dollars in their ball gowns.
It was live soft porn from start to finish. Fry up in full regalia at Big Georges to round things off and a stroll in the gathering light back home, what could be finer?

It would take far too much time to talk about everything that happened at the balls, and perhaps some selected highlights might yet form part of the Orange Blog's trip down memory lane, but potted memories include forsaking Big Georges for a slab of stilton bought from the garage and crackers at the girlfriends, chasing tail in every bar and dancefloor area of one ball, out of ordergate, tit in a white tux falling in mud before even getting in the ball and swearing loudly at Lohan for organising a truly awful graduation ball (Danii Mingoue still owes me more than the 2 songs she performed and I'll have my pay one day). Special mention here for the 95 grad ball at Reading uni and the wibbly wobbly lurch for the last coach home from a damp and cold field in the middle of nowhere.

Such a an amusing batch of memories, but to be fair, to stand out from the crowd in those particular three years, it had to be pretty damn special. With most of my friends now married and their happy days bagged and packed, there are few occasions to match the Uni red letter days. I miss them, and I miss fitting into a Tux by default rather than hard work!

P.S. The Dorchester did fantastic ham, egg and chips.