Some People Just Don’t Like Homecoming


A time of camaraderie and celebration of the wonderful institution that is Queen’s University. Alumni return to their primary place of learning, sports, and getting shit-face plastered. Let’s be honest, a lot of alumni and students alike don’t remember much of homecoming, much like they likely don’t remember much of their undergrad. It takes a certain person to love the sticky mess of thousands of drunks and another to, well, not. I just happen to fall under the category of the latter. Here is a look at homecoming from the point of view of someone that isn’t fond of masses of people or sports.
           I went to my first Pancake Kegger this year. I woke up at 9am on a Saturday to the heavy beats of my neighbours blasting Nickelback and the like. Not my ideal morning wakeup call. My housemate and I trekked the 6 blocks to our destination: the Great Pancake Kegger. It wasn’t that great. It was literally just a house filled with a lot of wasted people and not a lot of pancakes. Like at all. I think I saw a guy steal a half eaten pancake from a passed out dude in desperation.
           Needless to say, I didn’t get a pancake.
           I opted out of attending any sporting events for the simple reason: I don’t get them. I really don’t. But that is for another article, if this one doesn’t get me brutally murdered by the Hoco Drones.
           Anyway as it started to downpour, much to my sadistic joy, I watched from the dry confines of inside as sopping wet and stumbling students and alumni dragged their way to the football field like it will be their salvation. Then there is the storming of the field, which my mind can only equate to the stampede that killed Mufasa.
           After the game there all those that have bled all the tricolour they could muster shuffle back for post game naps to sober up for round two: the Celebrations. Whether win or lose, rain or shine, one or five midterms, Queen’s will party like prohibition starts tomorrow. I’m not against this. Not one bit.
           The thing is, these events tend to attract some of the creepier alumni, like the ones that smell like your Grandfather and Dad Squat to talk to you eye to eye and ask to buy you a drink. The drinks are cool, the reminiscence of your fatherly figures, not so much. Also, I’m not that short. Like granted I’m only an inch away from legally being a Little Person or whatever, but that doesn’t mean you need to squat to talk to me. I can look up, eyes can do that.
           So there it is. I don’t like Homecoming. Get over it.