Where to begin? Where the fuck am I? Has that boy hit puberty yet? What is that smell?
Greek life to a Brit is what Grime is to Americans — unheard of and baffling. I can’t deny it, I came to America wanting to experience this culture. I brought this on myself. I chose Greek life, Greek life didn’t choose me.
It was a rainy night when I was given my first bid (to any Brits reading this, a bid is a wristband that allows you to get into the exclusive event: the frat party). After finishing my vile Four Loko, my friends and I decided to make our way over to the frat. Like cattle being herded into a slaughterhouse, we were tagged and loaded up into the Uber, and we had no idea what we were about to face.
1. The first frat party I went to was nothing short of an anthropological study. There was the Alpha Male exerting his status through some ritual activity, chugging a beer whilst the troop of surrounding hooligans chant “chug” — so original. Next to the Alpha Male was someone you could call Roidy Ralph, aggressively fist-pumping whilst simultaneously flexing his enormous biceps … possibly overcompensating for something?
2. The next group of characters I stumbled across were The Freshmen, who all had something to prove: They can drink and they can get girls. After drinking more than their body weight in Bud Light, they moved to the dance floor to find an equally prepubescent girl. They danced the night away, with their bodies bent over and their arses rubbing on their crotches. I thought if I held eye contact with one of them for long enough they might feel embarrassed and stop — I was wrong.
3. The staple of any frat party is Surly Sam behind the bar. This unlucky chap has to serve everyone “champagne” and hates anyone with a special drink request. He so badly wants to shimmy over to the sticky d-floor and dance to that Sia remix, but he can’t. He’s stuck there pouring you another drink. A moment of silence for our fallen party comrade; I hope you make it through pledging.
4. The last fella that I think deserves a shout out is my main man, DJ I-have-no-taste, who sadly suffers from a condition of Chronic Dabbing. I mean, whatta guy! Throwing out the relentless choons that get us all into the groove. I wonder where he gets his inspiration — it couldn’t possibly be the Charts tab on Spotify. Let’s also not forget the token blonde girl next to him in the DJ booth. Yes, we all want to be you. We are so jealous you get to be up there whilst us mere mortals are left here in the sweaty mosh.
If you thought for a second the pubey beards, the weak beer and the shite playlists would stop me attending these parties and throwing it down with the rest of them — you’d be wrong.
Contact India Clare at [email protected].