'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?”