ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
“John, stand up and tell the class a little bit about yourself,” said the Professor.
He stood up and began to talk.
“No, come to the front of the class and do it.”
A hot flush ran out of his stomach and into his extremities; his face felt hot.
He shuffled to the front of the class and cleared his throat.
“Hi, my name is John,” said the 21-year-old.
“This is my second go at uni. I came here right out of school and just got way too into my bongs and fucked everything up. Lost good friends, my girlfriend left me for some double-polo-shirt-wearing-rugby-union-fuck-boy. But, ah, I’m originally from Brisbane and I like playing golf in my spare time.”
But that wasn’t enough.
“What are you studying? Are you in second or third year?”
John smiled and looked away at his shoes.
“You know exactly what I am, you jibbering old cunt,” John thought to himself.
But rather than say that, in the unpleasantly warm second-floor classroom in Building B of the Betoota Polytechnic College, he elected to nervously laugh and play ball.
“If I wasn’t such a bag of shit, I would’ve been done by now. Yeah, but oi nah, I’m a second-year media student. Looking forward to getting this course done so I can go work in a pub for two or three years until I get a job selling media for some soulless media buying agency in the big smoke.”
And with that, John’s professor nodded and said thank you.
Next up in the hot seat was Lucy Bluespoon, who was equally as amused to tell these strangers something about herself.
The cycle was said to have continued until the entire class had presented something.
However, the college board refused to comment on whether the ice was sufficiently broken enough to warrant the exercise in the first place.
More to come.
