The Filth And The Furry

That's it, it's over. No more drunken stumbling down Memory Lane for me, I've left Neill Wycik student halls and my looniversity days are finished - again. In a similar vein to South Central LA, members of our gang have been dropping like flies this week - only instead of being shot in the face they've been leaving on planes back to their respective countries, today signalling the last of the 16D compadres heading for home - and then there was one. Me. We've been truly international at the halls over this summer and nights out have included Mexicans, Columbians, French, Irish, Scots, Americans and, of course, good old Canadians and I have to say, I'm gonna miss it. Elements of the experience will be slightly less easy to miss - say, for instance, the mounting smell in the fridge (what the hell was that?) the perpetually sticky floor, the mouse and all its various excreted gifts and the wanky jobsworth security who actually smelt your drink in the TV room. But let's face it, an experience like this is only as good as the people you share it with and in this respect, I reckon I've been pretty lucky.

This is a pretty indulgent posting - but one I think that's richly deserved. The question is, how can this be done without sounding like the final act of a particularly bad American sitcom? You know, cheesier than the Cheddar branch of a Wosits factory. Well how about this: Aine, Norma, Luke, Clare, Ronan, Romain and Clement - you've made your family and country proud and you've also managed to make living in abject squalor amongst the drug addicts, prostitutes and nut-sacks a real pleasure. And that's no mean feat. As my stiff upper lip begins to quiver, know these two things about me:

1) You'd better leave a comment on this posting or I take it all back.

2) I think it's just something in my eye.

Thanks y'all and keep tuning in for further adventures. Bye for now.