Welcome To The Shore, Betch.

The shore is Santa Cruz and it’s nothing like the Jersey Shore. The latter is the smash hit MTV show that left me comatose in a chair for up to three hours every evening while I watched a group of perma-tanned, badly dressed, under-sexed Italian-Americans (Who refer to themselves as ‘Guidos’ and ‘Guidettes’) “live the dream” on a beach boardwalk in Jersey. To the untrained reality show viewer this may sound like crash-TV, but that would be to ignore the fact that the programme involves a man with abdominal muscles so big that he refers to himself as “The Situation”. MTV you’ve done it again, you son of a gun.

The former is a place described by the demi-god that is Wikipedia as being known for it’s “alternative community lifestyles and socially liberal leanings”. Translation: Hippie backwater short on funds, but high on tofu. It has taken me the entirety of Winter Quarter to realise that Santa Cruz is a place that may have given my initial welcome cry of “PARTIES’ HERE” a muted response, but can still define FUN without the help of our good friends Merriam & Webster. Several things have indicated to me that I have developed a fondness for the town, not least because I haven’t left for eight weeks and still have not developed cabin fever but also the fact that I have finally reacquainted myself with my good friend Ukulele and have purchased a bicycle. The last buy was triggered by an unseasonably sunny day in early February, when on Sam’s initiative I borrowed a bike and cycled with her to the beach. There were no big hills, no oily chain incidents, just bright sunshine, the promise of a light tan and me singing Miley Cyrus all the way.

In choosing to court that fat toed, faux Chanel -toting slag Sammi “The Sweetheart”, buff Bronx resident and all-round juicehead Ronnie broke a promise to himself. “My number one rule: Never fall in love at The Jersey Shore”. I didn’t establish any such clauses before I came to Santa Cruz, but like Ronnie I had no plans for falling head over heels-especially with a town that has a 24hour donut shop where, if you frequent it at a certain hour, you may see members of staff masturbating in the back room. Fortunately I have a message for Ronnie-“Don’t fall in love? Sorry betch, but I already did.”