'Student Life'

“Ah, fresher’s week!”

They sat and watched a gaggle of done-up girls spill out of a flat across the road, drunk and giggling in their short skirts. On their high heels they made their tottering way to the taxi-bus waiting at the pavement, shouting remarks to each other which were as much about exclaiming their arrival in the big city as they were about communicating. Mickey-Seamus looked down at the street below and watched a group of guys look across at the spectacle of female exuberance. He could tell by how one of them tapped another on the arm with the back of his hand and commented, and how they both smiled, that they were evaluating what they saw; totting up points for each girl depending on length of leg, shortness of skirt, sweetness of face, size of breast, slenderness of limb, style and colour of hair, and least and least, charisma of person.

This was the ‘Holylands’, an area of Belfast unofficially reserved almost exclusively for Catholically-backgrounded students from rural Northern Ireland moving to the city to study at one of the two large universities in the area. It was so-called due to the names of the main cross-streets: Palestine Street, Jerusalem Street and Damascus Street. And Cairo Street also, which was close enough to the real Holy Lands as far as people around there were concerned.  Along these streets and the other main streets in the area this scene was repeated over and over again all night. The girls were fresh meat, and the guys were wannabe predators. But, like most guys, they probably only very rarely had it in them to find such prey on one of the city’s dancefloors and secure a kill. And like most girls, there were probably few, if any, in this group who had a sexual attitude to match the suggestion of their dress.

The irony of the area’s moniker, the ‘Holylands’, was often remarked upon, with mention of the unholy happenings which were prevalent there – the heavy drinking, anti-social behaviour, sex, rowdiness of the students. This behaviour occasionally made the even made the headlines in the region’s press, but Michael saw another irony. This was a generation of Catholics who were not Catholic, but were not not Catholic. The majority of this generation has slipped away from attending mass or having a true belief in God. It was a generation who waffled around and ignored questions of God, life, death and values. It was a generation of young people who would, when pressed, state that they believed only to avoid the dark chasm of non-belief. And yet, the cloud of generations past hung over them. The religious values of their parents were muddled among the liberal Western attitudes of the 21^st century.

From his first floor flat window across the road, Michael could sense the conflict in those girls. There was a rainbow of attitudes they each could have, ranging from ‘no-sex-before-marriage’ to ‘up-for-a-one-night-stand’. The guys watching knew this, and despite their desire, the phenomenon of uncertainty was a barrier to their sexual ambition. The girl with the shortest skirt could easily be a prude. The girl who was shy could well be the easiest to talk into bed. Assuming they could take a girl home, it was almost impossible to tell which would stop where - and which wouldn't. The guys themselves could well range from the girlfriend type to the sexual deviant, although they were much easier to read. In the end, the mixed signals and Catholic heritage left the Holylands a hotbed of sexual frustration as much as it did a hotbed of sex. What was universal was that, in a myriad of forms, sexual desire was always there – and that was why they were at the window.

“Check out the baps on this one!” said Shane-Ciaran-Paddy as a chubby blonde carefully bounced out, “She’s my favourite.”

Mickey-Seamus sat back down on the couch and scooped up a bottle of beer from the box on the floor.

“Are we playin’ Kings or what?”

Keeping up appearances

Thank heavens I am not female.

Of course, sometimes I think it would be alright. You can drink West Coast Cooler in public and have a large collection of fluffy teddies in your bed (jealous). But there is one particular aspect of the female condition on my mind right now that I just don't think I could handle. I mean really girls, the sheer weight of expectation on you to look good would be too much for me too bear. I can't imagine what it must be like, waking up in the morning and having to look at a shelf full of bottles and tins and little plastic containers and knowing that you will be forced to use more than one in order to reach a basic level of outward appearance. It would be enough to reduce me to panic-stricken tears. This is a guy who looks frankly ridiculous right now because I just could not be bothered to shave. It's been two weeks.

On top having to (literally) face all this, you are now also expected to be happy about it. Those 'here come the girls girls girls' Boots ads in the UK show hoardes of lovely ladies actively relishing the the opportunity to expand their make-up collection. For the younger and more nocturnally-orientated, one particular advert shows dozens of sparkly-dressed lasses fighting for their place in the bathroom mirror of some club for the chance to touch up their face or photoshop their hair or whatever they do in there. Then they walk out of that hellish nightmare smiling as if it was fun! I'm sorry for my crude use of italics but the processes you females partake in on a daily basis are so abhorrent to me that the idea of the whole thing being enjoyable warrants extra stress to convey my total miscomprehension.

The aversion to all things cosmetic began in my 11th year of education. Somehow, in the summer between year 10 and year 11, the female teenage population of Northern Ireland decided as one body that fake tan was now in vogue. Now fake tan can effect a significant difference unto one's looks, and as thought it were the decision of some secret organisation called something like the UUSCTG (Union of United Self-Conscious Teenage Girls), suddenly every girl in school was wearing fake tan, and in copious amounts. As a young guy who preferred girls to have pretty much the same skin colour and tone all over, this came as a negative development for me. And the more I complained, the more the secret union banded together to form a united front against me.

The enemy.

Never will I forget how it was to sit next to a particularly tangoed young woman. The potent smell of the 'bronzer' would fill your nose - something between coal-tar creosote and baby lotion - and the mixture would always leave a ring of orange-brown around the inside collar of her school uniform. Her face (make-upped, not fake-tanned) would be a totally different colour from her neck and in places where the skin stretched and contracted often (like her hands) the tan-effect would by mid-morning become caked and cracked like the bare surface of soil in the midst of a particularly devastating drought. It was around this time I realised that, when it came to personal appearance, even the most sensible single girl could easily become a certifiable nut-job.

Of course, though some still cling to the good old days when their skin colour rubbed off on anything non-metal, most girls are moving on from that. It also helps that I am getting older. It seems to me that (at the risk of alienating the female reader...) when a girl reaches around 21/22, she finally learns how to do her make-up. Far be it from me to judge the efforts of the past - I don't doubt that if I had a go myself I would end up looking like a cross between Liza Minelli and Gene Simmons during the Kiss years - but all I know is that nowadays when I see female friends of mine above a certain age all 'dolled-up' for the night, I am geniunely impressed. The last time I remember having any real opinion on this was when I was 17/18 and wishing the girls wouldn't bother so much. Clearly something changes in the interim years of 19-20. After spending my school years frankly looking down on many of the girls in my peer group for ludicrously plastering their faces like it was an art project, the whole thing has been flipped on its head.

Last summer I travelled with a friend around Europe by rail. On many of the various stops we visited one or more of the famous art galleries in whatever city it was. For example, in Paris we of course had to visit the Louvre (although we initially turned up on the one day it wasn't open to the public - our excitement at the lack of a queue quickly turning into a realisation of our own haplessness) and in Florence we tried our hand at the Uffizi and wherever that place is where they house the Statue of David. We would dander around historic places like these dressed like the poor student chancers we were (and still are) looking a bit foolish. The whole thing was to me always wierdly similar to something I experienced soon after first moving to the city for the first time. I am talking about the first few times I went to a popular nightclub on a weekend (i.e., not a student night) and was confronted with group of attractive women in their mid-twenties.

Like a fine painting, you look at one of these girls and you know that you will probably never appreciate the hard work and artistry that went into making this thing look the way it does. When there are more than two or three in a room you find yourself feeling a little faint as something vibrant constantly catches the corner of your eye. You may find yourself standing before one and, as it looks back at you, you feel a little scruffy and inadequate - maybe you should have got more dressed up. Eventually, you admit that, try as you might to look like you know what you are doing, you don't belong there. So after retreating into the corners to hang about for a while, you leave past big security men dressed in black and return to the grafittied streets where you belong, altogether relieved to be out of the crowds.

This took a long time to prepare. Now it is being admired by total strangers.

It was to be found in here. This is the Louvre - basically an up-market nightclub.

Sometimes scruffy is just better.

As for keeping up my own appearance, in my post-acne twenties I have but one thing to look after - my hair. And even then I cut corners (see what I did there?). Aside from a brief period about a year ago when I flirted with the idea of a proper haircut, I haven't actually paid for a haircut in around five years. Taking after the thrifty outlook passed unto me paternally, I have instead taken to buying some clippers and doing it DIY-style. DIY home makeover TV programmes which were in vogue when I first had this idea (anyone remember Changing Rooms?). I like to think I've gotten pretty good at it over the years, but unfortunately the new set of clippers I have weren't working to their full potential when I called on their services recently...

Fully charged and ready to go, or so I thought...

Clipping away... Then the battery died. Something was wrong with it and no matter how long I charged it, it kept dying. To paint you a picture: imagine being halfway through shaving your head. Now imagine the sense of terror that fills you when the sound of the clippers suddenly just stops.

So this was the solution. I was forced to hold both charger and clipper in a grip I called 'The Awkward Pincer'.

The top of my head required a different approach. This one is called 'The Claw'.

The end result. I think I did OK. Although thankfully you can't really see the patchy bits in this photo. The patches grow out after a few days anyway.

Alternative angle. You can get a good pair of clippers for the price of a good haircut. Thank me later guys.

Another advertisement I saw the other day was particularly troubling. I was sitting through the ads on mute (incase the 'Go Compare' or 'Confused.com' songs came on again) when an image came on the screen of a group of beautiful women sat around a table in a café somewhere, all looking very stylish and well moisturised in a way that would never actually happen. At least not in Belfast. One of the women was clearly making a boast and then left the table. All of a sudden the other women suddenly ran from the table, which was actually in this woman's house and not a café, and started rummaging through Mrs Boastful's drawers, paying particular attention to her make-up. I assumed they were looking for whatever Mrs Boastful had just said kept her looking "radiant! 10 years younger!" or something. They returned to the table empty-handed only for Mrs Boastful to return with some yoghurts. Case solved.

They all start eating their yoghurts with (dare I say it?) decidedly sexual expressions on their faces then a logo came up with a tag-line saying "Eat yourself beautiful" or something ridiculous like that. It's all a lie women, don't listen to it! OK, it's partly true, yoghurt is a healthy food and good health does improve your looks, but no one food could ever make a significant difference to anyone's looks unless you literally spread it on your face like it actually was make-up. And no matter what the advertisements say, yoghurt will always basically be milk that's been left out in the sun. Which incidentally is how you look if you use fake tan, and not in a good way.

It's time to start calling a spade a spade, and not a patented, clinically-trialled, recommended-by-experts light ploughing tool which, when used in conjunction with fertiliser, can really make your garden stand out to the opposite sex, and is so much fun to dig with that you just can't stop smiling about it. Right then, I'm off to shave. But only because I'll be appearing in public tomorrow.