My name is Montague ‘Fresh’ DeLarge, and I am currently lost, insatiably horny, hiding my wedge with my fist rammed into my pocket and jerked over to the side, whilst trying to find the way back to my room in Founder’s.
Let me tell you the first thing about moving into university. You’re there five minutes, eye-fucking everything you see, and you think, ‘surely, the first Freshers’ event is going to be an orgy. It’s going to be an orgy, and I’m going to be the Orgy Captain. I’ve orgied before, these lovely looking people probably haven’t, so this is in the bag.’ It turns out that the first main event is actually the Freshers’ Ball. A shame, but Monty doesn’t complain about life. Monty gets life drunk, grabs it by the love handles, and does unspeakable things to it.
I knew I had to find the nearest and finest boozery to purchase the lifeblood of my life: wine and vodka, which powers my heart; rum and tequila, which powers my brain; and cider and ale, which I store in my balls because they’re denser liquids that need time. I don’t know how, but I ended up at Tesco; miles away, on my first day. But like I said – Monty never dies, and if he’s about to, cry heaven to Buggery Shore, because Monty’s found a yacht. It’s a philosophy I’ve employed my entire life.
I then went to the Union with my new chums.
One pint, two pint, three pint, four. Five pint, six pint, Monty’s on the floor. Bright lights. Fine wenches. Hip thrusting. Wenches on my legs. Wenches round my waist. At one point a wench on my head with her legs draped around my neck like an ermine scarf. Not sure how that happened. Within my loins I contained the fury of a thousand vodka-fuelled suns, and I let everyone know in a sudden supernova of grinding and whoring. All eyes were on Monty, and Monty had to go to the shit pit.
In the toilet, something strange happened. Both doors were locked, and I had to have a little moment in a cubicle because honestly, I wasn’t sure which of my orifices needed sudden attention. I beat the door and it suddenly gave way, revealing to me something that rapes my nightmares.
It was a Toilet Goblin. It had at one point been a student: a living, breathing, loving student, but something had happened to it. It was now a bent, murderous little thing, crouched down staring at me as if I had just killed all the other Toilet Goblins, and it was his duty to avenge his brethren. It started to scream.
I turned and ran. This thing had pushed me over the edge. My stomach had initiated a defence ploy I was not sure I would survive. I charged out into the smoking area, roaring loudly, announcing to all the vulnerable people a Toilet Goblin was at large. I gurgled a few words, and then it began. Endless vomit. Just seas and seas of vomit. I kept on chundering, and I kept on pausing, and chundering again. It was inches deep now, and all natural law had suddenly failed the universe.
And then I knew: I was the Vomit Messiah. Somehow, across the globe, people like me were raising their heads from above all the glorious shitters and hedges and doorsteps in the world and wondering where all the vomit had suddenly gone. I was the Anointed Vomiter, the Chosen Chunderer. There was a Vomit God, and this was his Eternal Gift. People began crowding around me, their excited tongues rose in an ululating mass, exalting my place in the hearts of man into the deep dripping sanctums of the chunder-soaked universe. This was my Coronation. Security finally slithered their way through my epic chunder, and hoisted me away to the anguish of the crowd, so I vomited on them too. With my head now raised, I was the Chunder King. These were My Chosen Few. My Many Disciples. The heaving, holy mass splurging from my gaping mouth would become Gospel. In the beginning, there was Tesco Value Vodka. After that – I don’t know. Sometimes you have to be the man that tempts all the slings and arrows of outrageous drunkenness, and be the hero the Union deserves, but also be too lashed to remember why – until suddenly Vomit God needs you. Slowly dragged away by the heavies, I left a golden trail of chunder for my people to follow and worship, and somehow, because the most gracious of stars above -probably Keira Knightley because she’s the finest filly there is- felt something this monumental had to have a happy ending, I would later wake in my bed. My sweet fuckable bed, with a note on my desk saying I would need to attend a meeting with my RSA in a week’s time. I ate it, to consume its knowledge and power. I think I was still drunk.
My name is Montague ‘Fresh’ DeLarge. I am a troublesome, debauched drunk who is going to get a first at university. This is the beginning of my journey.