The normal response to passing an exam may be to go out and celebrate near to where you live. Not quiet, by any means, you would normally make sure you remembered absolutely none of it, with no idea where you are when you wake up, why there’s blood all over your face or in fact why you’re now wearing a red lace thong instead of boxers. You trudge home, happy in the knowledge you celebrated spectacularly.

I, however, ended up going to Edinburgh, via Leeds. It was kind of pre-planned. Nobody goes to those kind of lengths on a whim. I didn’t just decide to go to Scotland, much unlike the original inmates of Australia, who went there because they had no choice.

I drank a lot of beer, but more jagerbombs than I could imagine. I’m pretty sure I spent about £30 in jagerbombs and managed to pass out. I truly and utterly fucked over all of caffeinekind and managed to do the opposite of what it’s meant to induce in me. I played god, kind of, and now I feel proud. Of course at the time I had no idea I had been so divine, and felt very much the opposite, as I deposited, what could have been a new life form spawned out of life giving abilities, but is more likely to have been the beer and a burger I had had as a meal a few hours before.

To wake up on a coach at 9am, seemingly without your bag and just a phone and a wallet is slightly perplexing. I looked to my left to see a girl with two buckets of sick alongside her and pen on her face. I decided that, she, like me, had had a good night, then she turned slightly in her stupor to reveal a wonderfully ornate and brilliantly drawn Hitler moustache, at which I point I decided she had outdone me in the fun stakes.

I went whisky tasting, which, don’t get me wrong, is lovely, but essentially, it all tastes the same. ‘You should be picking up the scent of bananas’ she says. No. I get the taste of whisky and the death and decay of the insides of my body, not bananas, and anyway how the hell do bananas get into whisky, you distill it and put it in a big barrel. At no point did you say they put half the world’s bananas into the barrel. Either, you’re lying to me, or illegally importing fruit. If you are doing the second option, why the hell did you decide to import fruit? There’s no money in it. Heroin? Yes. Not plums and kiwi fruit.

As I returned to London yesterday, once more I was presented with a wonderful Hitler moustache, this time, the person involved had tried to take the emphasis away from the moustache by colouring in their nose. An odd tactic, but surprisingly it worked. Then as I sat down next to a man with his hands taped to his balls I prepared myself for the hedonistic lifestyle of home. Students, eh?

There are times in life where things that your mom said to you years previously ring out. ‘Cheap and cheerful’, ‘you get what you pay for’ have never before sprung to mind so freely as they did the other day.

This is the story of the not so megabus.

I am always painfully early. For everything. I’m scared that I’m supposed to die at about 96, but I’ll want to get there early so that I don’t miss anything. 46? 34? 21? Got to give myself a good 65 years or so to make sure that I am indeed dead by the age of 96.

Some may call this indulgence, smart, safe, well prepared. Others would call it anal, a waste of time or stupid. In the circumstances, I have to agree with the latter.

The first issue with said journey was that of lateness. A bus being late when you are early is more annoying than Graham Norton being on TV. You sit. You get bored of said position, so you get up, purposefully, you charge to the information desk, you demand satisfaction, and you timidly agree that waiting is better. You skulk back towards your seat, but no doubt someone has taken it. From under your nose. You’ve been robbed of an item you didn’t even own. You gambled and it did not pay off. Your left to curse under your breath; a subtle, ‘fucking hell’, until the bus finally arrives. You no doubt smile at the driver, and make no complaints, leaving your utter hatred and disgust at this idiot’s timekeeping skills to burn away at your brain for hours and hours and hours until you give in and stab that pencil into the back of your hand.

Secondly came the irritably frequent problem of traffic. It’s more frequent than a kid screaming incessantly in a restaurant. No matter what time you go, no matter where you go there is always a lorry, a car, or a screaming devil child ruining everyone’s evening. If you have a baby, and it’s ruining your life at home, why on earth would you want to use it to ruin everyone elses? Yes maybe if you were a bitter and twisted individual or John Humphrys (who I hope is no longer having children for the sake of future human evolution) but you’re not. You’re a woman in the prime of her life. Now take the blasted brat home and shove something in it’s mouth. I’m here for the chicken and the delightfully bland conversation at hand, not to be serenaded by something as hideous as the Mcfly greatest hits.

The traffic left me sat in a seat for 4 hours. On the M1. In the dark. I’m sure the M1 is horrible enough in the day let alone at night. It’s probably more horrible at night than a family christmas round the Fritzl’s. 

All in all, coach travel is not worth it. Yes it’s cheaper than a recently imported HIV ridden russian ‘beauty’, but the hours of slow unmanageable anguish is probably less hassle than putting on a condom and getting your £8 an hour home visit workout from Belgukovna.