I've got a degree. Oh, so have you. And you. And you. And you.

I’ve neglected to inform this blog that I recently obtained a degree in Journalism. I’m not entirely sure of what’s going on in Darfur or what the fuck Marshall McLuhan meant by ‘hot’ and ‘cold’ media (I’ve always found it to be tepid) but still, I can conduct presentations based entirely on the ambiguous sexuality of Spongebob Squarepants and be awarded a 100% pass rate for my efforts. I can’t think of a better way to spend tens of thousands of pounds.

I could’ve celebrated in the usual manner: y’know, a spot of racketeering, blackmail, money laundering, gang warfare, pimping, extortion, bribery, kidnapping and smuggling – the same old shit.

Instead I felt massively underwhelmed and made some underwhelming flapjack and a cup of underwhelming tea and went to bed while it was still light outside and got up the next morning for another day of underwhelming telesales work and then some more underwhelming tea and possibly another piece of underwhelming flapjack.

So yes, everyone has a degree. It’s no big deal. I’ve done nothing worthwhile with my life for four years besides intermittently conforming to various student stereotypes and notching up vast reams of debt. It’s over now and that’s that. I never spent my summer holidays inoculating impoverished children in the third world. Sorry.

Graduation ceremonies are exceptionally boring. I had to walk around all preened and uncomfortable in a silly black dressing gown while my parents took lots of pictures and moaned about the things that people above the age of fifty love to hate. It was essentially a shambles. No one knew where they were supposed to be and my contemporaries and I were shepherded down long, empty corridors like the intended victims of an academic holocaust. Instead we were treated to two hours of eczema-inducing tedium, where the only respite came in the form of a beautiful, inspirational and downright dazzling speech by George Monbiot.

Afterwards, I felt a little teary and stared into space for a while. I believe this is commonly known as ‘reminiscing’. I should’ve worked harder. I should’ve appreciated the opportunity to expand my pitiful knowledge base. I shouldn’t have done that, that or THAT. I should’ve written, drawn and photographed more. I should’ve looked after myself better. Bah.

These feelings lasted about fourteen minutes. Not one to be entirely enveloped by an unfeasibly large jiffy bag of despondence, I went and booked myself the cheapest flights that the internet could muster. Fortunately for me, I was headed to swanky Milano*. It was hot in Milan. I got bitten by flying malaria vessels. I don’t think I’ve got malaria. I can't be bothered to write about my holiday.

And now I’ve no job or permanent abode and I’m going to have to go and live with my parents until I learn how to face up to reality. I aim to be paying council tax within the next five years.

THE END.


*And if anyone even mentions my carbon footprint I’m going to poke them in the ear with something pointy and abrasive. I’ve not left the country for two years AND I don’t drive AND I recycle everything AND I turn the lights off when I’m not in the room AND I only boil enough water for my cup of tea AND I’ve thought about putting a brick in the cistern but decided against it for fear of inducing a plumbing catastrophe. You can just piss off. We’re all fucked anyway.