What nobody tells you about moving to York

People will always tell you going to university is a life-changing experience, they will be the best years of your life and you’ll make friends for life.

All of these are hideous clichés. But then again, everything is a cliché if you think about it. Your car will be packed with way too much; clothes you won’t wear and books you won’t read.

I couldn’t wait to get to York: little did I know what was in store for me. Ignore the uni prospectus – these are the thing they should really have told you.

Nobody cares about your college

While you might feel the need to join in in the cringeworthy chants about your college, please refrain from doing so. You’re not “Derwent till you die” – you’ve been there for less than 48 hours and you’re only there because your parents didn’t fork out an extra £40 for an ensuite.

You have as much affiliation with your college as most Manchester United fans do with their team, so basically none at all. If you’re unfortunate enough to be in Halifax then you definitely shouldn’t chant anything, unless the chant is about getting in through clearing and studying history of art.

They’re not your BFFLs

The friends you make in your first week are more than likely never going to be your real friends. They aren’t even fair weather friends, but merely friends by geographic intimacy; you need not have to settle for them just because they live in your halls.

Sure, be friendly – you might even find a diamond in the rough. But realistically as soon as freshers week is over they’ll stop being your “BFF” and start being that guy who doesn’t shower and always drinks your milk.

Willow was pretty shit

Willow was a shitty Chinese restaurant/nightclub serving warm cans of beer, with the same shit music and tragic dancing as a year nine disco. Its only redeeming feature was the fact that this time you could actually buy alcohol, so talking to the opposite sex wasn’t as daunting. You could even get laid, albeit with a member of LARPSoc.

The second and third years will talk about going to Willow as if it was Ibiza in the early ’90s when Paul Van Dyk and ecstasy pills first took off. Ignore all their chat – it was shit and its closing is a step in the right direction for York.

You shouldn’t fear the STYCs

Don’t take the STYCs too seriously – they’re basically jumped-up milk monitors from primary school. To the STYCs themselves, remember that you’re only doing it in a vain attempt to be a BNOC and prey on the freshers.

They will try their utmost hardest to impress you and give off a pretence that they are cool. They’re not. Or maybe I am just bitter because I was deemed “too much of a liability” to be one.

The Economist isn’t worth it

Do not be fooled into signing up for The Economyth. Yes, the subscription starts off cheap at only £1 a go and you look oh-so-educated when you’re reading it, but after a few weeks you won’t have even ripped a copy from its cellophane wrapper in over a month.

Head to any porter’s lodge in December and you’ll see a mountain of unclaimed copies piled to the ceiling, reeking of regret and self-loathing. Sure there are those students who read it cover-to-cover and quote extracts in seminars, but they’ll probably end up working as a Labour fluffer in their hometown office. Who really wants a life like that?

The city is a deathtrap

York is like a postcard. It looks beautiful and quaint and charming and is full of history and old winding passageways. But in reality, you’ll never bother to wander around the city looking at the historic buildings unless you’re a history nerd.

Students go to town for only two reasons: to get fancy dress for the sports socials or to go to the bank to find out why their student loan hasn’t come through.

On a night you’ll have to avoid the infinite supply of hen and stag dos parading around with blow up penises the size of small cars and the Lynx-spraying, Burton shirt-wearing, college-loving students throwing up after two pints. Best to stay in.

College sports won’t get you respect

For all of you who can’t quite manage to make it into any of the University’s four football teams, there are the college teams. Meaning you can always be the star you dreamt of being, albeit of Langwith Threes.

Of course, you’ll be playing on the wet 22 acres at an ungodly hour on Sunday against another college who can’t rustle up even the bare 11. The ref won’t have a whistle and will be wearing jeans, and the goals won’t have nets. But hey, it’s all about getting involved, right?