Why I love doing the irony

A more enthusiastic person might be treasuring this feeling; relishing each metaphorical curled spinach leaf as a souvenir of their entrance into the university of life.

"Hurrah! This sandpaper throat must be the beginnings of the legendary Freshers Flu!" they might gleefully declare.

"My feet enjoyed that half hour detour down Camden High Street in stilettos so much they're still throbbing three days later!

Marvellous!" you'll hear them proudly asserting in the SU bar.

"I can't actually eat solid food again yet", one cheerful soul will boast.

Not so me.

No, I've come to realise I am too cynical for Freshers Week.

I am too cynical for many things in life '“ this is why I've never been able to appreciate Celebrity Love Island or Tom Jones' hair with quite the fervour they deserve.

Where the noble institution of Freshers Week is concerned, I am a groaning, eye-rolling machine.

Phrases like 'Vodka Redbull drinks promo' and 'Back 2 Skool Nite' strike individual notes of terror in me, the former mainly because it is likely to mean dancing round puddles of vomit on the pavement in order to escape, the latter because, as a former Davison Girl, I'm fairly unacquainted with the notion of school uniform as a minxy St Trinian's costume and would most likely turn up in my old shin-length navy pleats and wonder why everyone was staring.

However, cynicism was left in the cloakroom (well all right, I decanted some into my handbag in case of emergencies) for our outing to the Ministry of Sound, that enormous day-glo temple to trance, and other than recoiling in horror when asked to shell out 4.50 for one bottle of Becks (a price for which I expected it served to me on a silk pillow with a small personal cherub to aid my sipping), it was fun.

It was fun to dance in a club where the floor isn't sticky and the toilets have an attendant and doors that lock.

It was fun to text my friends in their respective corners of the country to say I'd "been called to the Ministry".

It was fun to do the big-fish-little-fish-cardboard-box dance with straight face.

It was fun to pretend we were on an advert for an Ibiza Cream Classics compilation CD.

It was fun to know I'd never have to go back again.

The important thing to understand about Freshers Week is this:

Hollyoaks lies.

It is a worthwhile notion to grasp generally in life, to avoid disappointment the day you discover that the real residents of Chester are for the best part not nubile, colt-limbed Topshop adverts with immaculate highlights and gym memberships they actually use, but it is especially true of Freshers Week.

On Hollyoaks, Freshers Week tends to begin with a trip to A&E and end with a trip to an STI clinic, like a Club 18-30 holiday with A levels.

Nowhere do Hollyoaks ever feature a corridor of students watching Fawlty Towers and building a card pyramid to while away the midnight hours (and it was a wild night, thank you very much).

Yes, Freshers Week is a myth.

For every rookie student lying naked with his head in a gutter, there will be 20 eating ketchup on toast in their kitchen and debating the origins of various stains on the ceiling.

Or popping into Tesco Express on the way back from the pub because queueing is more interesting when you're intoxicated.

To end this on another lovely dose of irony, just after I finished the previous paragraph there was a roar from outside, and I watched from the window as a chap with a sensible haircut stripped down to his yellow boxers and fell in a bush.

Someone get that boy a part on Hollyoaks.

I'm going to bed.