The ASS is finally back open, and once again, its four concrete walls are going to be riddled with UOB students fighting for their academic lives as November looms. For those within, it’s a psychological battlefield.
To the seasoned observer, the ASS is in fact a microcosm of Bristol student life, a living, breathing diorama of procrastination, pretentiousness and mild academic panic. Below is a non-exhaustive taxonomy of the native species that inhabit this sacred study ground.
The law student
You’ll find them in the silent study zone, posture impeccable, bathed in the glow of Westlaw. There’s always a Pret cup within arm’s reach and a tote bag that says “women’s rights are human rights” slumped loyally beside their chair. They’re either silently typing 2,000 words a minute or scrolling LinkedIn, obviously, no in between. Occasionally, you’ll hear the faint whisper of “vac scheme” or a frustrated sigh that could shatter glass.
The fresher
Armed with matcha lattes, MacBooks and blind optimism, they’ve come to the ASS to “romanticise locking in.” They’ll post a photo of their laptop before immediately opening TikTok. Give it a few weeks and they’ll be crying to their tutor just like the rest of us.
The arts student
Easily spotted by their vintage outfit and the lack of eye bags. Their workspace: annotated poetry, a half-drunk black americano and a Moleskine full of thoughts and lists they’ll never reread. Every so often, they jot down something about “creative burnout” as if it’s an innate characteristic.
The situationship study session
Two laptops, one playlist, zero productivity. They sit across from each other in a pod, pretending to work while exchanging meaningful glances every five minutes. Everyone can feel the tension, but is too polite to acknowledge it. Their essays remain untouched, but the emotional damage? Ongoing.
The computer science student
They live for plug sockets and will guard them with their lives. Huge headphones, dark hoodies and an expression that hasn’t changed since Fresher’s Week. Their laptop screen is covered in code and chaos, and no one’s sure if they’re debugging or watching Better Call Saul. Communication is limited to sighs, grunts and the occasional “it worked on my laptop at home.”
The DJ
You’ll never find them in here or any library, for that matter.
The med student
They look perpetually exhausted because they are. You’ll find them stationed near the café, surrounded by empty Red Bulls, muttering about placement hours and exams that don’t end until 2047. They type at alarming speeds, powered entirely by fear and caffeine, radiating the energy of someone who hasn’t known peace since first year (if at all).
The postgrad
A rare but powerful species. They have lore you’ll never know and have claimed the same desk since 2021, allowing no intruders. Their emotional support water bottle is roughly the size of a toddler and when they whisper, “I used to love this topic,” a chill runs through the air.
