On the morning of May the First, the students of St Andrews revert to their pagan roots, and run into the North Sea at the first glimmer of sunrise in a screaming, steaming, and soon to be freezing mass. Obviously you have to be absolutely gurdleblasted to do this, which means much of the evening of the thirtieth is spent turning the bloodstream into the boozestream. My itinery for this hallowed day shall on this, the occasion of my final May Dip, run as follows:
- Return from work. Turn on Dr Who
- Drink every time I feel the need to negatively compare modern Dr Who with its classic counterpart.
- Apply glad-rags to body. Sluttiness of said glad-rags will be directly related to the quality of Dr Who episode (and alcohol thus consumed).
- At dawn, if liver has not exploded, head to the beach. Those whose livers have exploded shall be left where they lie, for they have been found wanting.
- Engage in such traditional beach pursuits as loudly passing jealous judgement upon skinny girls in bikinis, and throwing stuff at other stuff.
- When dawn cracks the horizon, run/stumble/crawl/roll into the North Sea.
(7a) Forget to remove coat or bag. Watery destruction of the written word in both paper and electronic forms. Reversion to dark ages now complete.
- Realise that am no longer capable of coherent movement such as is required for swimming.
- Be carried out to sea.
- Befriend a seal through timely deployment of my most excellent hand-flappy seal impersonation (‘Arf! Arf! Arf!).
- Be brought safely to land by friendly seal.
- Discover that land is Norway.
- Marry Viking.
- Live happily ever after.
That is all.