Alice Gould can barely finish the acronym ‘BNOC’ without bile rising in her mouth. Since when did balancing a tiny ‘COMMES des FUCKDOWN’ beanie on the tip of your head become a socially acceptable thing to do? And what the hell was with ‘The Harlem Shake’? Alice doesn’t get it.
There are already thousands of articles slating lad culture because of its blatant sexism. I agree whole heartedly with this. If anyone called me a wench, rated me based entirely on my looks, or sent me to the kitchen (where I apparently belong) I would go Kill Bill on their arse. Or, y’know, write a bitchy facebook status about them. It’s a shame really, I do make very good sandwiches.
So while this is the main argument against “lads”, it is not the only reason why you should avoid them at all costs.
I mean, when exactly did it become cool to vomit?
My first full on experience with a self-proclaimed “lad” was when he stopped about a metre in front of me and proceeded to perform a “chunder dragon”. For those of you who are lucky enough to not understand what this means let me ruin whatever remains of the innocence you must have tried so hard to protect:
Step 1: Bend over so that your torso is at a right angle from your legs.
Step 2: Flap your arms up and down
Step 3: Erm…. “chunder”
Step 4: You are now officially cool.
If you want more information, google it. And yes – there are videos. And no – you do not want to watch them.
Flashback to my first vomitty experience. There I am, puke on my shoes in my best friend’s back garden, halfway through a house party, with a look of sheer revulsion on my face. I look around, waiting for (what I thought would be) the inevitable waves of mocking laughter at the pitiful excuse of a human being puking in front of me, but no.
Instead there was cheering. There were pats on the back. There were congratulations. This man was universally accepted as the dog’s gentleman parts.
I mean, come off it.
When I got to uni things somehow got worse. The phrase “on it ‘til I vomit” was uttered at the start of every night. Not as a regret, but as a goal. People who go out with the aim of getting alcohol poisoning are a mystery to me – people who look up to them for doing it, even more so.
On the rare occasion I am sick after drinking it is a shameful event. The next day my head is bowed in humiliation. Yes, even more embarrassing than the time I got trapped in the revolving door in Portland Building with three other people I didn’t know.
Instead of sharing my indignity, my first year flat had a “Chunder Chart” proudly on display in the kitchen – with a tally chart for each of us beneath it. Whoever had the highest number “won” (I came fifth, in case you’re wondering). I had become part of the glorification I had previously detested.
So to summarise? Lad culture is bad for the fifty thousand reasons we all know. And chundering. Is. Not. Cool.