A Foxy Education


It would appear that being a sexual deviant gets you further in life than previously believed, and I didn’t even need to bust out my flowery bra. To celebrate the end of the first performance batch (we have Monday and Tuesday off from performances, a fact I had not been aware of until last night!), we did the sensible thing and drank until the early hours of the morning, serenaded by the silver-tongued lyrics of Jessie J, Snoop Dogg and scary Korean Pop courtesy of Marina.

It was then that a young man would suddenly appear. Tuxedo’d and utterly gazebo’d, the boy we would later come to know as “Fabian” was a frat boy fox of a particularly esteemed and supposedly fascist fraternity house. Unable to get rid of him, Oliver to decided that were he and I to flirt with the boy, we could scare his insular little mind into running away. Many “sweethearts” and arm-strokings later, it would appear drunk Fabian was quite resilient to a pair of creepers. So much so that he invited us two back to his frat house. So, beer in hand, and to the sound of tumultuous applause from our fellow cast members and spectators, Oliver and I departed the theatre to walk with the staggering Fabian to his Frat House.

The two of us constantly making up different things about each other, Oliver and I were able to create quite the little fiction around Fabian as he showed us different fencing techniques, and giant dining halls containing more history than the entire American colony. There is only so many history lessons about a table one can listen to, so Oliver and I used advanced mathematics to bore Fabian to sleep so we could escape. Scuttling out the door, Fabian wished us a good night, though the sun was at the horizon’s peak, and promised to “come see that play thing you’re making”.

An odd adventure in general, it was surprisingly educational, mostly in regard to how glad I am fraternities don’t exist in England. The misogynistic, power hungry institution of bias had reduced the young, and genuinely good-hearted Fabian to a “Fox”, as in; a bitch. He would drink on the orders of his superiors, finish their drinks if told to whilst being made to fetch, grab and bow on command. What’s character-building to some, is in fact a year of shame and under-foot treading in hope of some prosperity later in life should you then meet someone capable of easing you into a job. Still, you get your own maid, so I guess that’s something.

Like in the movies

On a scattered evening of confused locations and lost shoes, Heidelberg got weirdly violent. Out we had gone to celebrate the coming of age for the glorious Nik. We learned never to drink an Embryo but to always let Chuck Norris tickle the back of our throats. However, because there wasn’t enough drama on this fun-filled festivity, it came time for me to get chucked out of the club, for doing the terrible act of touching a disco ball.

And by that I literally mean a sparkly ball used in discos.

Grabbed by the back of the neck I waved ceremoniously goodbye to everyone else as I was carted out the building, where after being pushed out into the street, I had to calm down the furious German I’d been thrown into causing his drink to spill. Still fairly sober and waiting the alcohol to hit, I kept up a text rapport with those inside and grabbed a drink in the Brass Monkey, where I was overcome with glee thrown at me from the two French fancies, Manon and Anais, the latter of whom was visiting after having finished her Heidelberg semester in February.

After many a banterous laughter, I got a text saying everyone else was going home, but not wanting to waste a night, I joined a group into The Cave, meeting more Monkey staff on a night out, joining the groups together we set out for a late night of fun, that is until we left the club to find ourselves in the middle of a “brawl” between two young fellas. Angry at one another for something, they tore at each other’s throats, ripping their shirts, revealing their chests and more ripped shirts… With more… Manly chests… And… Chests…

Sorry got distracted.

When the fight pushed into our group causing a ruckus, a few of us got involved, after initially pushing them apart I ended up grabbing one into a full nelson whilst the wonderfully multilingual barmaid, Lucy told him off auf deutsch. Relenting, the fight diffused until the drunken guy I’d held struck me across the face randomly and went charging after another fight. Fairly sozzled ourselves, we gave chase until I caught up, grabbing him into another arm lock, and getting him to the ground until everyone was able to actually calm him down, speaking words I could never hope to pronounce.

By this point it was nearing 6am so we all went home, the sun peeking over the mountains as I felt my fingers rising into a bruise. Clumsy goose. A bizarre night of great varieties, Saturday certainly gave enough things to laugh about the next day over a recovery brunch, though not sure how much I’d like to repeat them.

Fishing for Pikes


The awkward moment when you wake up, thankfully in your own bed, but with no recollection as to how you got there. That was the predicament on Saturday morning when after a full bottle wine and a night trip to Halle 1, I found myself surrounded by pasta and confusion. The first big night out with pretty much the entire group, it served a fantastic, if belated 21st Birthday to the ever delightful Sinead of O’Reilly land. We drank much, got out, hit the floor.

And then it was Saturday.

And I had a headache. The first proper Heidelberg Hangover after a week of almost continuous drinking was not wholly undeserved. It’s been a great week, but I think my liver needs time to recover. The stigma of Erasmus being a year of alcohol consumption is proving to be more a character trait where I’m concerned.

It is also an interesting day of Birthdays and Deathdays. Three exceedingly important people have either aged up or… gone further into negatives. The first, with a joint age of 44, are the incredible Hannah of Surrey (well Bracknell but we’ll ignore that) and Katie of London. Two very important people, Katie the best fellow Guinness drinker and Rugby follower I could have hoped for, from the many awkward trips into full pubs, to swooning over Jonny Wilkinson (If only for his looks, when he talks he is one boring stooge) to fantastic holidays in Spain, Katie consistent charm and charisma is something you can only ever hope for in a friend. Hannahramma was one of the people to actually coerce me out of my shell at uni, auditioning for her production of “Snow White” as the incredibly masculine and totally hetero Goodford, to encouraging me to Assistant Direct “Little Shop of Horrors” and to eventually become President of the society, where as Sexretary, her advice and guidance were top notch, with a chest that seems to inflate on Skype and a laugh that can be heard from Germany, she is fairly awesome. I wish both of them a fantastic birthday, here’s your German shout out =D And to you, Will.I.Am Shakespeare, happy Death Day. Because you’re dead and all, but your words are still better than what most people could ever hope for. Shame about your plots.