Football, Dirty Weekends and the Last Lecture EVER

So one day, a week ago, marked the end of an era. Four years of lectures have come and gone, new and inventive methods of sleeping upright being invented with each new term, enough caffeine consumed to give even a cold cadaver palpitations and keep Lavazza Coffee in business, and you would think I would be as happy as a dog with two tails when for the last time, I walked into a lecture theatre, sat down and duly nodded off. I think I expected more of a finale, more of a going out with a bang - but the clock creeped past its hour and as the class filed out that was it. The last lecture ever. A bigger anti-climax than waking up on Christmas Day morning, running into the living room and then remembering you're German and have already opened your presents the night before. Not that I am truly finished. I still have reports, a 25,000 word dissertation and a bunch of exams but that is a winge for another time.

To celebrate this momentous occasion, instead of exploring the great binge culture of Newcastle and killing off my last remaining brain cells I took a flight down to Bristol for a weekend.. In a miraculous first for the UK the sun appeared and an awesome weekend of wine, sun and slacklining in the park at Bath ensued and I returned to Newcastle on Monday evening slightly burnt and satisfied. Satisfied because I had finally overcome my ability to wear gravity like a coat when slacklining, and was starting to create some substantial sex appeal in sunny England, rocking the beard better than Jesus in a death metal band.

Some sexy hunk

The following day, the entire group of people on my Masters course planned to get together for a friendly kick around at the local sports centre, so it was with eager anticipation that I donned my shorts and previously unworn Lonsdales that morning and shuffled off like an eager beaver. Now I should point out that the below image summed up my expectations of this match, and despite not having played football since I was 16 I had this notion that I would be a god on the pitch.

Some sexy woman

Now the above notion was quickly dashed as I remembered that no such women exist on my course (hopefully they don't read this) and the second notion was similarly dashed as the knowledge that I was actually completely useless at football spread faster than an STI in a University Hall of Residence. I was sweating more than a fat man in a sauna as I found myself essentially just chasing people up and down the pitch in an attempt to locate the ball. In my frustration resorting to slamming my opponents to the ground to get the ball, apparently an action that is generally frowned upon. I finally found my calling in standing in front of the goal and stopping the ball from entering the net, the result of such an action I was assured would result in the opposition getting a point. Just like back in school playing rugby when I simply followed the instructions of staying at the back and not letting anyone through, these were instructions I could follow - although my methods were occasionally frowned upon. Perhaps a little too high on our glory my team mates even let me back out onto the pitch where I managed to score a goal, although it was the result of hitting the keeper in the arse and deflecting into the net but ill take that. Now the only gripe with that day was my Lonsdales. Now a good friend once told me that Lonsdales are for Chavs, povo's (his words not mine) and steroid junkies and I am sure he would tell me that I deserved every damn blister that I got on my feet. Not that I could call them blisters, more one huge continuous open wound of festering goo. So the last few days I have been hobbling around slower than an old man with his zimmer frame, feeling like I have been running on a running machine made of sandpaper. But skin heals and glory lives forever, and that goal will live on forever.

OK enough milking of that moment.

In more depressing news I made the momentous decision when I moved back up North after Easter to leave my boats behind, as in recent times they had seen as much action as a nuns lady garden due to a ridiculous workload, and the constant knowledge of their nearby location was about as frustrating for me as I imagine it is for a monk living a life of celibacy next door to the Playboy Mansion.

Some sexless monk

So I guess that's it for this week. I'm currently sat at home working on flood reports, pretending to revise and wondering what I am going to have for dinner. In 3 weeks time I will be packing my bags, my room, my northern life, into the small confines of a blue metal VW Polo and praying to the car Gods that the wheel bearings don't go completely on the 350 odd mile trip down south to Cardiff, where I will start my dissertation in earnest with work in the office. I will save sharing  my enthusiasm for my hydrological modelling work for another time, I don't want to overload my readers with too much excitement in one sitting.