As well as a world-renowned academic institution, University of Bristol is a great place to make friends. I met many of my favourite people there, and I still speak to most of them regularly two years after graduating. However, adult life is a transformative experience, and the dynamics will inevitably change as you all begin to grow from irresponsible, immature, often-drunk students to slightly more responsible, slightly less immature, still-drunk-quite-often-but-less-frequently-because-my-God-the-hangovers-are-so-bad-now adults. With this in mind, I have created a comprehensive list of who will make up your university friendship group two years after you all graduate. Behold your future:
The one who stayed in the town you all studied in
This person resisted the pull of London and has remained in your university city, still going to the same bars and still living in the same area that you all did as students. They seem happy. They are not. Secretly, they are bitter that you've all left them behind and desperate to recapture your student glory days together; you can tell because your interactions mostly consist of them sending you links to various big club nights to try and entice you into coming back and visiting. They say they stuck around for the job prospects and because London is too big and expensive, but the truth is that they aren't ready to face up to being a grown-up yet and are clinging to the memory of being a carefree student in a futile attempt to hold back the indomitable tide of ageing and certain death.
The one who's saving up to buy a house
You know the one that's saving up to buy a house because all they talk about is how they're saving up to buy a house. Every conversation is an opportunity for them to tell you how much they've got in their Help to Buy ISA and how much you could have in one too if you gave up every single thing that makes you happy. Still, you may pity them now that they're living with their parents and never go on holiday, or even to the pub, but you'll regret wasting your twenties on gaining independence and having fun when you're still renting in the city at age thirty and they're living it up in their very own two-bedroom semi in rural Derbyshire.
The one doing the grad scheme with the £35k starting salary
At first this is exciting. Zara becomes a beacon of hope for us all. Amazing, successful Zara, who only got a 2:1 just like you, who definitely didn't do as many extracurriculars at uni as you did. If she can do it, so can you. She is an inspiration. She is also generous, covering cab fares and even treating you to the occasional meal out. You love Zara. You are happy for Zara.
The months go by, and the happiness begins to shrivel into resentment. You can't join her for her birthday because she's having it at some ridiculously expensive bar-slash-club in central London where entry alone is a week's rent. She used to like your lentil dhal when you lived together, but now every time she visits she insists on going out for food – and not just anywhere, either, but 'somewhere nice'. You've had to hide her from your Facebook feed because she keeps going on holiday to places you not only can't afford but may never be able to afford. As you do so you feel a sharp pang of spite. Is she really that keen to share her photographs, you think, hovering over 'I don't want to see this' and aggressively jabbing your finger into the mouse, or is she just being smug? It's not like she's got a fancy camera; they're just taken on her iPhone. They're not even that good. Look, she's cut that person's feet off in that one.
This is the turning point. You hate Zara now. The class war is real, and your friendship is but another of its hapless victims. In spite of everything, however, you still invite her to your birthday. She's the only one of your mates who can afford to buy you a decent present.
The one who constantly moans about being poor even though they refuse to get a job in a non-creative industry
"Hey, guys. No, just a tap water for me. I'm really hard up this month. Just like every month. You know how it is being a creative. God, it's so hard being this skint. No, you don't get it, actually, Jamie. My salary is so low I'm not even paying off my student loan yet, and you get a bonus. And you're going to Spain next month. By plane. When I go on holiday, which is never because I'm so poor, I get a Megabus. Check your plane privilege, Jamie. If only there was something I could do to earn more money. Sorry, what? Look for a more profitable job than Features Intern at a biannual magazine about Taiwanese furniture? I can't believe you'd even suggest that. I guess I'm just less into money than you guys."
The one who moved abroad
Weeks become months. Months become years. It's been so long since any of you have seen Josh that you can't really remember what he looks like. There might be one friend that WhatsApps him occasionally, but even they haven't actually seen him in person since 2015. It's time to face up to reality: you've been friend dumped. It will be hard to deal with. You will spend an inordinate amount of time masochistically scouring his social-media photos, looking for an indication that he's made a whole new group of friends (he has, and, yes, they are much cooler than you are). His name will be thrown around at parties for a while, with the more optimistic members of the group saying, "I invited Josh, but he didn't get back to me. Do you think he's OK? I hope he's OK." Listen. Josh is fine. He just doesn't like hanging out with you anymore. All you can do is accept this, unfollow his Instagram, and continue living your life. In another two years' time you will have forgotten he existed and only think about him briefly once a year when he posts 'happy belated birthday, mate! Sorry I'm a bit late, got loads going on atm' on your Facebook wall.
This is the turning point. You hate Zara now. The class war is real, and your friendship is but another of its hapless victims. In spite of everything, however, you still invite her to your birthday. She's the only one of your mates who can afford to buy you a decent present.
The one who constantly moans about being poor even though they refuse to get a job in a non-creative industry
"Hey, guys. No, just a tap water for me. I'm really hard up this month. Just like every month. You know how it is being a creative. God, it's so hard being this skint. No, you don't get it, actually, Jamie. My salary is so low I'm not even paying off my student loan yet, and you get a bonus. And you're going to Spain next month. By plane. When I go on holiday, which is never because I'm so poor, I get a Megabus. Check your plane privilege, Jamie. If only there was something I could do to earn more money. Sorry, what? Look for a more profitable job than Features Intern at a biannual magazine about Taiwanese furniture? I can't believe you'd even suggest that. I guess I'm just less into money than you guys."
The one who moved abroad
When you were all fending off nervous breakdowns during finals you talked about how you were all going to move to one of the trendier European capitals after you graduated. Only one person per friendship group will ever actually do it. They will make friends with lots of exciting people from all over the world, learn a new language, soak up a new culture, and generally live a vibrant, joyful life. The rest of the group will enjoy having a free place to stay in Berlin, at least until 2019 when Brexit happens and they have to come back home.
The one who never seems to want to hang out with any of you anymore
In this age of social media it has become almost impossible to lose touch with someone and make it look like an accident. You and your friends spent your university days, some of the most formative years of your adult life, completely inseparable, and it was pretty clear that you all wanted to keep it that way after graduation. The only thing is Josh sometimes forgets to reply to messages when he never used to, but he has a busy job. He never comes round for dinner anymore, but who isn't tired on a weeknight? And there was that time when he bailed on Allie's birthday party at the last minute, even though he lives fifteen minutes away, but he was never a big party person anyway.Weeks become months. Months become years. It's been so long since any of you have seen Josh that you can't really remember what he looks like. There might be one friend that WhatsApps him occasionally, but even they haven't actually seen him in person since 2015. It's time to face up to reality: you've been friend dumped. It will be hard to deal with. You will spend an inordinate amount of time masochistically scouring his social-media photos, looking for an indication that he's made a whole new group of friends (he has, and, yes, they are much cooler than you are). His name will be thrown around at parties for a while, with the more optimistic members of the group saying, "I invited Josh, but he didn't get back to me. Do you think he's OK? I hope he's OK." Listen. Josh is fine. He just doesn't like hanging out with you anymore. All you can do is accept this, unfollow his Instagram, and continue living your life. In another two years' time you will have forgotten he existed and only think about him briefly once a year when he posts 'happy belated birthday, mate! Sorry I'm a bit late, got loads going on atm' on your Facebook wall.
The one you never liked much but they live really near you now so you hang out with them out of convenience
It's amazing how much tedious small-talk/opinionated blustering/offensive body odour a person can withstand when they really don't want to join a yoga class alone.
It's amazing how much tedious small-talk/opinionated blustering/offensive body odour a person can withstand when they really don't want to join a yoga class alone.
