The Seven Students You'll Meet At Exeter
Back in the days when bubonic plague roamed amongst iron-clad knights, and Geoffrey Chaucer served as the people’s Kim K, there was only one destination for the seven deadly sins.
Covetous? Proud? Sexually active?
To Hell ye go.
Nowadays, I suppose, little has changed. In place of hellfire and brimstone, however, such souls face the equally terrifying prospect of student debt and six weekly contact hours.
Yet, how exactly do we identify such heretics? Indeed – above all else – how will we know where they reside?
Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce you to the seven deadly sins Exeter style: the seven heathens you are bound to encounter if you so choose to study there.
Gluttony – The serial brunch addict
As anyone who has looked at a Devon cream tea will be able to surmise, when it comes to nightlife, Exeter is perhaps not number one… Yet, what it lacks in liver cirrhosis, it more than makes up for with booming levels of cholesterol. From the cutesie Cakeadoodledoo to the elegant Coffee Cellar, Exeter’s cobbled streets are riddled with the threat of clogged arteries. And with as many sugar-coated orgasms as such enterprises boast, there will be always be that sinner… “We need to have a proper catch up,” they’ll simper across to you at lectures. “Let’s go get brunch shall we?” Or two. Or three. Or – before you know it – enough to rip that student loan from its cosy nook in your bank account.
Lust - The fresher
Oh, how hopeful we were at age eighteen. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, trotting off to University with our First Aid kits and student cookbooks, confident in our aspirations for First Class honours and BNOC (Big Name On Campus) stardom. Such dreams, however, are nothing compared with the libidinous ambitions of a Fresher. To a Fresher, nothing is better than the rose-tinted promise of coitus. Condoms? They’ve got a suitcase-ful of them. Not that they’ll be used however; chlamydia is merely a trick of the light to these feral squirrels.
Greed – The private school pretender
It’s a truth universally acknowledged that Exeter is filled with more private school students than every private school combined. Not that they don’t try though bless them. They’ll be the first to tell you that Kanye West is the voice of a generation. Or that Jeremy Corbyn’s giving a much needed facelift to Communism. As long as their quest for human rights doesn’t interfere with their bi-yearly ski trip to Val D’Isère, they’ll be quite the ally.
Wrath – The rowdy rugby boy
It is perhaps not surprising for a city serving as England’s Himalayas to be doused in such a hefty quantity of sports teams. Particularly on a Wednesday night when local club, Timepiece, is transformed into a battle ground for hormones and oversized egos. If you can survive amongst the mosh pits, drink spillages and pervasive threat of a fight, may you be welcomed with open arms.
Sloth – The flat vampire
No need for garlic, the flat vampire is an easy foe to encounter. Often greasy-haired and softly-spoken, what they lack in work ethic, they more than make up for in a commitment to the nocturnal life: be that one of Exeter’s handful of clubs, Call of Duty, or their ex’s Netflix subscription… It’s hardly bohemian, but one can only hope it’s wholesome.
Envy – The tracksuit wannabes
When it comes to the top 1%, Exeter is well-versed: welcome to the top 1% of sporting elites. There they shine, on the rowing machines ‘til midnight, while the remaining 98% can only gawp over our Domino’s. Then we find the other 1% - the devotees – proudly identified by their overdraft’s worth of Exeter sports stash. Perhaps they’ve once braved the overcrowded inferno of the gym. Maybe they’ve even seen a protein shake. Who knows if they will actually get to touching a weight, with an Instagram of their tracksuit bottoms, what more could one need?
Pride – The “have you seen my blog?”
“Have you seen my blog?” They’ll ask, five minutes into the conversation. You’re not even entirely sure what their name is. But you accept this leap of friendship. How lovely, you think. Such cutting edge journalistic dreamers. Indeed, once you’ve sifted through their inane ‘drunken exploits’, some slightly blurred travel photos and – if you’re lucky – lengthy analyses of their favourite childhood toys, you’ll be reading E.L. James as if it’s Shakespeare.
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