Nene College is now known as the University of Northampton. Whilst I was there in 1997, it was an institution in flux and as a consequence somewhat schizophrenic. What was it? - A college, a university, or both? They settled on the latter; calling it the ‘University College of Northampton’ in 1999.Due to the college’s ambitious plans of becoming a university in the future, they needed to attract as many students as possible. They weren’t picky when choosing. It not only attracted students who needed a second chance after screwing up their A-levels – but also people you would never think of meeting in higher education.
A case in point was my flatmate Mark. Mark was the first person I met on arrival day at the college; he wasn’t supposed to be there until Sunday. He was likeable but not very bright. He was small, skinny with a shaven head; he had taken far too many drugs – which had included heroin. He likened himself, all too seriously, to Luke Skywalker. I will never forget his speech about how one day he will learn The Force and become Obi Wan Kenobi – all this in a thick Leicester, or should I say ‘Less-tarr’, accent. His voice also had a touch of the Scooby Doo about it.
During our first conversation he offered me a spliff. I'd never smoked before, I was always going to try it but not on the first day. I knew about the side effects, including possible bouts of paranoia, and the last thing I wanted to be was all weird and teary on my first day.
Mark had moved in with the help of two of his friends, neither of which I liked. They didn't come out with us that night and in the morning there was a trail of minor destruction, they'd made a mess in the kitchen and set fire to bits of paper which had been stuck to our doors. Cigarettes had been stubbed out on the corridor's carpet.
Mark was doing art but his work was shocking; not in the Damien Hirst, Tracy Emin sense - It was just crap. He worked with marker pen on giant sheets of paper drawing people boxing and smoking spliffs. At one point he persuaded me to do a boxing pose for him whilst he took pictures. When he got the snaps back he claimed I looked like I had tits.
I would roll my eyes at Mark’s deep reflections on the course of his life but there would be others bowled over by his wisdom. We had a relationship like Blackadder and Baldrick, except I wouldn’t make any witty putdowns for fear of becoming unpopular and looking spiteful or pompous. I kept quiet and watched the sage in action, which was funny at least.
Mark was very popular, everyone seemed to know him. Part of his attractiveness was due to being a part-time dealer. He turned our kitchen into a cannabis factory, the packing stage at least. He would microwave tile-shaped slabs of cannabis resin; cut them down into Oxo-sized cubes; weigh them on his personal brass scales and then place them into bags with £10 or £20 labels attached. We would get people knocking at the flat door all the time. To further highlight Mark's drug obsession, and stupidity, during a trip to Amsterdam he posted back some weed to his home address. Needless to say the police came knocking.
In all fairness, people liked him for who he was: Harmless, friendly and at times quite charming. I was a bit jealous of him. The one quality I did crave the most was his self-confidence; I had little and he had it in abundance.
He started seeing a girl called Becks who was pretty and smart. He was seriously punching above his weight. She had clearly fallen for his lines like everyone else had. I think she liked Mark for the novelty. He was never marriage material but he was amusing. I fantasized about her getting fed up of Mark and knocking on my door for a cuddle and then some...
Mark was failing his course because of his poor attendance. He couldn't get out of bed for 9am lectures. This had a lot to do with smoking weed into the morning, playing some shit techno, full blast. (Paul who lived next door had to start taking sleeping tablets). Mark's friends were rallying around trying to save him, preventing the inevitable expulsion. The day before a meeting with his tutors he decided to take part in our vodka challenge in the kitchen. The aim of the game was to pick lots out of a hat which would either say one, two or three. These were how many shots you were supposed to take. It was a bit like Russian Roulette and Mark became the tragic Christopher Walken figure, repeatedly picking out the threes. He got slaughtered and pissed all over the table. Becks, the sweetheart, cleaned it up with the mop.
Mark got his last chance, I have no idea how. However, his relationship with Becks was on the rocks. He told me she'd asked him if they could talk instead of just having sex. He had replied: "Sweetie-Pie... you've got your friends to talk to..." He looked for my approval; I looked out of the window. Becks eventually decided she'd rather be his friend. It didn't seem to bother him. He started seeing Paula from Burnley, who barely spoke or acknowledged me. She was a bit rough to be honest. I heard them shagging in our little toilet and the mental image burned into my mind. However, he had what he wanted which was sex on tap.
Mark's artwork wasn't showing any signs of improvement. He suggested to his tutors that his shaved head was a piece of conceptual art and he was paying homage to Ripley in Alien 3. He claimed they bought it but they were humouring him, biding their time. He failed his year.
Mark hung around for a bit before the summer break. He'd got into a fight with a moronic rugby player and ended up with a broken jaw. He was a forlorn figure sitting in my room and rolling a joint; his jaw was in some sort of metal contraption and he was trying to repeat the Luke Skywalker analogy. I actually felt sorry for the daft sod.
A year later a group of us were walking into town talking about Mark. In the distance, in the glow of the street lights I could see a boney, child-like figure, “Look there he is…” I said. Speak of the devil and all that. “Hi Mark we were just talking about you.” He was flattered and started laughing. I was actually pleased to see him. Then he said: “So Neil, are you still roasting that bird?” He was referring to Niki who I had started seeing before he left – she's now my wife. There was no answer to that and I just shook my head and smiled.
Mark was failing his course because of his poor attendance. He couldn't get out of bed for 9am lectures. This had a lot to do with smoking weed into the morning, playing some shit techno, full blast. (Paul who lived next door had to start taking sleeping tablets). Mark's friends were rallying around trying to save him, preventing the inevitable expulsion. The day before a meeting with his tutors he decided to take part in our vodka challenge in the kitchen. The aim of the game was to pick lots out of a hat which would either say one, two or three. These were how many shots you were supposed to take. It was a bit like Russian Roulette and Mark became the tragic Christopher Walken figure, repeatedly picking out the threes. He got slaughtered and pissed all over the table. Becks, the sweetheart, cleaned it up with the mop.
Mark got his last chance, I have no idea how. However, his relationship with Becks was on the rocks. He told me she'd asked him if they could talk instead of just having sex. He had replied: "Sweetie-Pie... you've got your friends to talk to..." He looked for my approval; I looked out of the window. Becks eventually decided she'd rather be his friend. It didn't seem to bother him. He started seeing Paula from Burnley, who barely spoke or acknowledged me. She was a bit rough to be honest. I heard them shagging in our little toilet and the mental image burned into my mind. However, he had what he wanted which was sex on tap.
Mark's artwork wasn't showing any signs of improvement. He suggested to his tutors that his shaved head was a piece of conceptual art and he was paying homage to Ripley in Alien 3. He claimed they bought it but they were humouring him, biding their time. He failed his year.
Mark hung around for a bit before the summer break. He'd got into a fight with a moronic rugby player and ended up with a broken jaw. He was a forlorn figure sitting in my room and rolling a joint; his jaw was in some sort of metal contraption and he was trying to repeat the Luke Skywalker analogy. I actually felt sorry for the daft sod.
A year later a group of us were walking into town talking about Mark. In the distance, in the glow of the street lights I could see a boney, child-like figure, “Look there he is…” I said. Speak of the devil and all that. “Hi Mark we were just talking about you.” He was flattered and started laughing. I was actually pleased to see him. Then he said: “So Neil, are you still roasting that bird?” He was referring to Niki who I had started seeing before he left – she's now my wife. There was no answer to that and I just shook my head and smiled.
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