THE gaudy neon hues of a poster plastered to a bus stop caught my eye. It was advertising a drinks promotion for a student night. A plethora of lethal sounding concoctions at rock bottom prices.

Ah, Freshers' Week. That heady rite of passage before the hard work of knuckling down to a few hours of lectures each week really cranks into gear.

Admittedly, my own university days are a bit of a blur. Fear not, I have delved into the recesses of my memory banks – aka Eternal Sunshine of the (Not So) Spotless Mind – to bring you this warts-and-all guide to student life.

You will join every club and society

Rowing. Geology. Krav Maga. Chess. Ballet. Fans of Cats: The Musical. Capoeira. Harry Potter Appreciation Society. Napkin Folding.

While full of good intentions at Freshers' Fair – broadening your horizons, padding out the old CV, yada yada – you will never darken any of their doors again. Not one.

Come October you will be skint

I had a university friend who ploughed through pretty much his entire student loan buying shots in a well-known Glasgow nightspot. From there it was a downward spiral. He landed a job as a newspaper editor and now makes gazillions in PR. Let this be a warning.

There's a good chance you will steal a road sign

At 3am, that "Loose Chippings" sign will seem like a cool/edgy/original addition to your sparse student flat. In the cold, harsh light of day, you will realise that it looks utterly lame. And there's an overpowering whiff of dog pee coming from the traffic cone perched on your bedside table.

A foam party will feature at some point

Aka Dante's lesser known tenth circle of hell. Up there with standing on a Lego brick in bare feet.

Noodles are the devil's work

If you eat instant noodles for breakfast, lunch and dinner over a prolonged period, your skin takes on a waxy, grey pallor. Do not consume them raw or try to cook in a toaster.

You will quote from Das Kapital

And think it makes you seem clever. It doesn't. Stop immediately.

Beware the ghosts of social media past

Much like a wonky belly button scar from when navel piercings were all the rage circa the heyday of The Spice Girls, the internet can be a permanent reminder of our younger, more foolish days.

Thankfully when I rocked up to Freshers' Week in 1995, the world wide web was still in its infancy. Sure, there were cringeworthy photographs, but I was too hungover to take the camera film to Boots.

It is now rotting in landfill somewhere. Possibly next to my Charlatans T-shirt and Adidas shell toe trainers.

You will kiss a lot of frogs

Most will remain frogs. Unless you are Kate Middleton.

A nasty bout of freshers' flu will floor you

Tempting as it is to attend every soiree going, all that socialising coupled with sleep deprivation, junk food, alcohol and stress pulverises the immune system. You will crawl under a duvet believing that you are patient zero in The Walking Dead.

I duly prescribe two curry-flavoured Findus Crispy Pancakes washed down with contraband original recipe Irn Bru while watching The Princess Bride on a 12-hour loop.*

In 20 years, you will attempt to recapture the magic of Freshers' Week

Which is fine if you don't mind sloshed young people saying how much you remind them of their mum before they break off into huge, racking sobs fuelled by homesickness.

Two minutes later you will be holding their hair back as they vomit in a sticky-floored toilet while you rue not staying in to watch Strictly on catch-up.

*I am not a qualified doctor and any medical advice dispensed in this column should be taken with a large pinch of salt.

Altered reality

LISTEN up. Reality TV is making a comeback: you read it here first.

For a while there, admitting any fondness for watching a bunch of glossy strangers sitting around on beanbags spouting nonsense about their love lives and a poor grasp of world events was akin to revealing you went seal clubbing at weekends. Social pariahdom lay that way.

Instead, it was all about binge-watching subtitled Scandi-chic crime dramas or the latest misery porn series, the latter generally set in a post-apocalyptic wasteland where rabid undead creatures/sadistic AI robots/proponents of the alt-right are our new overlords.

After all, what is relaxation if it's not whimpering and wincing through hour after hour of terrifying viewing before finally falling into a fitful, nightmare-filled sleep haunted by images of a zombie dragon from Game of Thrones being cloned as a pet by Aunt Lydia in The Handmaid's Tale?

Thankfully, a reality TV renaissance is now upon us. It started over the summer when everyone was saying in hushed tones how Love Island was their secret guilty pleasure.

Now things have ramped up a notch or two. This week will see brand new Channel 4 series The Circle launch. Participants can only interact with each other through a voice-activated social media platform in what is billed as a cross between Big Brother, Catfish and Black Mirror. Sinister, much?

I'm calling it. This is how the machines take over.

Keeping up with the Kremlin

IF you needed any further proof that the reality TV genre is hot right now, then I give you Moscow. Kremlin. Putin. Airing weekly on Russia's state-owned channel Rossiya 1, the premise is simple: showing us a different side to President Vladimir Putin.

C'mon, I hear you say. We're busy people. Give us the 10-second elevator pitch version. OK, think Bear Grylls unleashes his inner Kirstie Allsopp. House of Cards meets River Monsters. This Is Spinal Tap gets blind drunk and has a love child with Downfall.

Its many gems include mesmerising footage of Putin on holiday in Siberia, striding through the rugged landscape in masterful fashion, picking berries and sniffing mushrooms, posing idly on tree trunks like a catalogue shoot for Cotswold Outdoor.

It's all very manly. Camouflage khaki and sturdy boots. Sweat. Thank goodness there isn't Pheromone-O-Vision because next door's terrier would be going nuts.

Still, you can't help but wonder if the BBC are missing a trick? Someone should be fast-tracking an equivalent titled London. Downing Street. May.

Picture the scene: it's the end of a long, hard week at the coal face of politics. Prime Minister Theresa May cracks open a bottle of her favourite tipple and casts her mind back to simpler times.

Camera cuts away to farmland in Oxfordshire. There's a sudden ripple of movement. May is now running carefree through fields of wheat. She pauses to do the Baby Shark dance.

This must be green lit. Otherwise, really, why are we shelling out £150 apiece for a TV licence fee?