First off, I absolutely refuse to have my summary include the generic phrase: "A story about [blank], [something annoyingly hipstery like sculpted beards] and learning to dance in the rain." Because this story is not generic. In fact, it's not even...
After an eventful (to say the least) Freshers' Fair, Nick and I parted ways and headed back to our different accommodations to drop off the mountain of freebies. On my journey back home, I started thinking about what tonight's plans would be. This was the first official day of Freshers' Week, and more importantly the first official night of clubbing events. Where would I go? Who would I go with? What would I wear?! Numerous unanswered questions swam around in my head as I tried to organise my evening. Regardless of where I was going or what I was doing, there was something that I'd need to organise regardless: *Pres*.
Pre-drinks: Known to most students as "pres". An opportunity before arriving at the club to get as drunk as possible on your own alcohol, and play childish but really fun drinking games. Cheaper. More amusing. Everybody wins.
Pres could be a pretty great opportunity for me to meet people from a range of courses and universities. As well as MMU, there was also the University of Manchester. Although a larger portion of the students there were posh cunts, I'm sure there were decent ones too. There were definitely hot ones, that much I knew. I've been observing.
All of a sudden, my train of thought is interrupted by my phone's ringtone. Digging into the pocket of my jeans, I retrieved it quickly and checked who was calling.
It was the cute rowing guy.
I silently cheered in my head, before sliding to pick up the call. "Hello?" I mustered up the sweetest voice possible, trying to add northern melody to my monotonous London accent.
"Hi, remember me? It's not been too long, so I'd be disappointed if you had." Someone was fucking confident. But then again, when you're that hot, that talented and that charming, you have a right to own it, provided you're not an arse about it. Play hard to get, my subconscious demanded.
"Pretty hard to forget, although I never did get a name." I might as well've been winking down the phone. My subconscious' advice had been 100% binned and disregarded as my blatant flirting continued to play out.
"Well, that's great to hear. The name's Will," his deep voice replied, causing me to develop this ridiculous wide smile across my face. I was infatuated within a few fucking hours. Shame on me.
Say 'Will' again, Will. Shut up, stupid brain.
"Well that's good to know, I can finally change you on my phone from 'Hot rowing guy.'"
"Not gonna lie, I kinda like that title. Maybe leave that, and just put my name in brackets?" I could hear him chuckling softly and it was killing me. Everything was killing me. I was a weak teenage schoolgirl and he was the American quarterback or something.
I laughed along before continuing the conversation. "Uh, so anyway - Any particular reason for phoning?"
"Yeah actually, I thought you might be a pretty good laugh for pres. I'm staying in private student halls, so there are tons of people turning up at my flat tonight from all years, courses and unis. Final year students kinda have a rep for the 'go hard or go home' attitude, so you can rest assured that pres with me aren't a bore. So what do you think?"
This was exactly what I needed. A chance to meet and greet with Manchester's best. I needed a bunch of experienced students to show me a good time, teach me the tricks, and get me absolutely *mortal*.
Mortal: Drunk. As. Fuck.
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