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 is always a place in my heart for the art of buying ridiculous garments for very little point other than to go ‘look at this, isn’t it ridiculous, I bought it. It was £10,000.’

However there is a point in a person’s life where one must balance the amount of ridiculous clothes you own and the amount of super noodles in the cupboard. This is called university. In London, the price of being alive with a semi competent roof above your head is excessive. Especially when the government refuse to tell you that you need to fill in a form exactly the same as another form. I’d love the money I am entitled to, but if there is one more form I am going to rip them a brand new anal form, through their lumbar spine.

Spending revolves around important dates; birthdays and Christmas. They involve money being given to you for no real reason. You grew a year older, well done. Everyone does this! Nobody fails to age. Otherwise they’d be probably the richest person in the world. Think of it. They invest in a bank with just £10, how much interest will they have profited from in a few thousand years? Too much.

Does ageing require monetary benefit? Yes. Otherwise I would be poor, and I don’t like the look of Sainsbury’s Basics’ attempts at super noodles, Not a good show.

Christmas, thankfully, no longer revolves around praying to an invisible bloke, who, if he actually existed, would spend his time in changing rooms, ladies toilets and porno shoots, rather than caring if you went to mass. All blokes are perverts. I know this from my own biological experience. Bernard’s Watch is set with Bernard that age for a reason. Nobody wants CBBC showing wanking round the back of topshop as Bernard freezes time to get free tissues from Superdrug and head back for a proper good pumping.

Yuletide now revolves around buying and receiving pointless junk and the erecting of fake trees adorned with lights and ornaments that are so tacky they even got rejected by the Blackpool council. The main bit is the money exchange. That sounds a bit like the Godfather. Christmas isn’t like the godfather. There aren’t guns. Just knives and forks. It’s messier. Money is power. Power to buy ridiculous jumpers.

I went out and bought two things today. A jumper, and a mustard polo; two fairly innocuous items. I paid £24 with the gift that is a student card. The power to have a cashier tell you the price, then metaphorically punch them in the face with your student card. Pow. I’ve got a card that makes it cheaper. What do you make of it? Don’t question me. I’m the king of this transaction. I dictate the price. The power, the unrelenting happiness that you can now afford a bag of crisps and a copy of Nuts for the bus journey home, and maybe a striptease.