Thursday 26 December 2013

A defence of science fiction.

I have a couple of friends who hate science fiction. They told me they don't like having to know a whole Bible of context before actually getting to the meat of the characters. And that is a perfectly legitimate criticism of the genre. Generally speaking Science Fiction and Fantasy won't have as much character development as other genres. Sometimes it will choose to focus on interesting characters (as evidenced by the television series Firefly) but for the most part they devote more time to develop the concept and universe they function in. I couldn’t tell you much about the main character in The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch and yet I am constantly singing its praises (much to the annoyance of all my friends). However some friends have still asked for recommendations from me despite disliking the genre.
In preparation for this essay I Googled why some people would hate Science Fiction (beyond the reasons mentioned). I ended up bumping into a blog post from 2007 that tried to explain the author’s disdain for the genre. It left me feeling frustrated and angry. Mostly because it revelled in the stereotype of sci-fi writers and fans (basement dwellers with questionable hygiene, it was all very original in its social satire). 
But there were a few criticisms that someone unfamiliar with the genre might have. So all the while I’ll be waving the flag of science fiction and making recommendations here and there. That said my recommendations might be limited by what I’ve read or watched myself.

Defining Science Fiction
This is a hard thing to write about. Science fiction covers a vast array of topics and unlike its sibling genre fantasy it sometimes chooses to define its fantastical elements with real world logic rather than an invented logic. From a young age I was told that science fiction is about humanities fears about science. Well that can be true, a classic example of this is Frankenstein, a scientist makes a breakthrough discovery but neglects to take responsibility for it and said discovery runs amok. But one the flip side you have science fiction that doesn’t chastise science. Star Trek for instance is all about a positive view of the future and technology. So now we’re back to square one.
I find a much better definition of the genre is: it’s about how a strange idea would have implications for humanity. Whether or not we see this impact upon all of humanity is irrelevant. It is all about humanity. For instance Frankenstein makes a supposition that has implications for all of humanity, the idea of artificial humans. I find this definition works for every story I’ve read. In order to build up a solid definition of what the genre is it might be a good idea to look at the classics.
Recommendations
The Time Machine by H.G. Wells
War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells
Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
Frankenstein: The Modern Prometheus by Mary Shelley

False predictions
Some people charge science fiction writers with the incredibly difficult task of predicting the future. How well do they fare? Pretty poorly. 1984 did not see the arrival of a totalitarian government in the UK and the space programme was crippled by 2001. How can we possibly take the fiction seriously when the facts have been disproved?
Here’s the thing. Science fiction is fiction. It is a writer telling a story it is not a prophecy. Robert A Heinlein is not Nostradamus. Even if the writer prided themselves on accuracy, like Asimov and Clarke, what their stories posit is mere speculation. In the cases of them you could argue that the only reason their predictions didn’t come true is because science and technology became more capitalist. I won’t say that’s a bad thing. Many incredible advances we use today we made by corporations and made personal products not industrial ones (such as the case with I, Robot).
Put aside the idea that the writer is trying to predict the future, because for the most part, they aren’t. They are trying to tell you a fantastical story in a way they can see as being feasibly possible, and sometimes that requires you put aside your knowledge of how history turned out. When was the last time a romance writer was lampooned for not bringing together couples in the real world?
Recommendations
I don’t think I can make recommendations for this section. Instead I will post a trailer for a series of documentaries I watched called Prophets of Science Fiction.

Too little or too much science?
It’s in the title, but what do people make of it? Well this is something that troubles a lot of readers. Science fiction in film and television frequently waves aside the science in favour of saying “it’s the future; we’ve accomplished this, deal with it”. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing! Sometimes when an author tries their hardest to show off the science in their stories, the fiction suffers. Writers of hard science fiction (Larry Niven, Joe Haldeman, Isaac Asimov) have to make sure they don’t end up writing a text book. It isn’t easy.
Of course the alternative is just to say “screw it, future science is way too complicated to bog down the story”. That’s a fair point. But in the information age it’s easy to check on simple facts.
With this the question is: what do you want as a reader? How much does the scientific plausibility matter to you? I would advise looking up any material you're thinking about reading; tvtropes.org has a decent article about this called Mohs Scale of Science Fiction Hardness. If you want someone who knows what their talking about when it comes to science then it’s probably advisable to stay away from Gene Rodenberry’s body of work. If you don’t care to have scientific principle peppered throughout the story then The Forever War is probably not for you.
Harder science recommendations
The Forever War by Joe Haldeman
Foundation by Isaac Asimov
I, Robot by Isaac Asimov
Softer science recommendations
The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch by Phillip K Dick
Dangerous Visions edited by Harlan Ellison
Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert A Heinlein
The semi-naked damsel
Oh boy. This is usually a fantasy trope but science fiction certainly has its share of scantily clad women. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t exist in some science fiction. There is definitely some male gaze in a lot of Phillip K Dick’s work and I’d argue that it works against it.
Now if you were to look up pulp science fiction covers you’d be well on your way to understanding what tentacle hentai is, and you’d be worse off for it. Seriously, we thought Japan is weird, we were weirder. Thankfully today science fiction magazines have a lot more dignity. The stories handle the topics of sexuality with a lot more tact and maturity rather than just “hur dur boobs”. As with any genre the only stories and novels people remembered were the ones worth remembering as such you’d have a hard time finding the rampantly exploitative in the local library.
But I’m sick and I get a giggle out of crap like this, if you’re prepared to laugh at the old sensibilities they can be amusing. So if you’re demented, sexist (homophobia and racism also feature for bonus points!) or both you can pick these up on kindle. 
I guess I’ve already made my recommendations here. Look up the covers on Google, find one that looks fun and ridiculous and see if the title is available as an e-book. I’ve never read any sci-fi for its portrayal of sex but if I were to choose examples I would say the best I’ve seen yet were: The Forever War by Joe Haldeman (although I think it could have handled homosexuality better) and Brave New World by Aldous Huxley (in which sex is always cheap and love is absent).
Cliché
Really think of what comes to mind with a clichéd science fiction story. The first things that come to mind are probably laser toting rubber forehead aliens, a poor understanding of science often exemplified by technobabble, shiny leotards being the height of fashion, one ancient bit of technology still being lugged around in the space ship. Having carefully selected my science fiction reading I can confirm that so much of this isn’t true.
The Martians in Stranger in a Strange Land look nothing like humans and don’t carry lasers. The fashion in Brave New World is all artifice and superficiality, and it varies from class to class. The scientific understanding in The Forever War is well realised and relevant to the story.
So let’s look at something riddled with rubber forehead aliens, technobabble and leotards. Star Trek and its various incarnations are guilty of these clichés but I can happily watch it because that’s not the focus of the show. I like Star Trek: the Next Generation because each episode focuses on new dilemmas that are often a reflection of some part of human history. It ain’t too shabby. The only reason we notice science fiction clichés more is because most of the clichés have to do with aesthetics. Rubber forehead aliens? Aesthetic. Shiny leotards? Aesthetic. Shiny bleeping computers? Aesthetic. Technobabble? Erm… OK you got me there.
If you actually take a look at the story telling instead of the aesthetics chances are you’re going to find something more unique than your giving credit for. This is why so much of my friends and family don’t understand why I love Babylon 5, it looks cheap, and laser toting aliens are prevalent in it but good Lord the story is brilliant.
And let’s quickly get the whole rubber forehead thing out of the way. Science fiction shows are infamously tight for a budget. A quick way around this is to glue bubble wrap to someone’s face and call them king of the Clantoons or whatever. Some might see it as a copout but you try making a realistic Cthulhu on a shoestring budget. As for lasers, we use them today, in industry (the most common being Carbon Dioxide lasers). The reason they are not weapons is because it’s not practical for them to be weapons. Yet.   

Any of the texts I've put as recommendations would easily count as avoiding the clichés of science fiction. Some other notable examples include We Can Remember it for You Wholesale (The Collected works Volume five) by Philip K Dick, Battle Royale by Koshun Takami, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams, and also The Mammoth Book of New SF usually has some good stories.   

And this is where I conclude the ranting.
Chances are some of your favourite films are science fiction anyway. Examples include WALL-E, The Matrix, Jurassic Park, The Hunger Games and Transformers. These aren’t considered science fiction by so many people; they consider them family films and action films. Well if that is the case then I guess Jennifer Lawrence needs to give back her Saturn award, The Matrix should stop appearing on ‘best sci-fi films’ lists, Spielberg should throw out his Hugo award, and the creators of WALL-E need to have a MAJOR clear out of their trophy shelf.

 Going back to the blog of 2007 I found the writer did cite some examples that she enjoyed, such as The Handmaiden’s Tale and Isaac Asimov’s short stories about robots. But there were only two writers she mention not liking and her criticism of them was a sparing one sentence each. Interesting that she came up with equal amounts of examples for both sides. The rest of it was a list of unfair clichéd arguments prevalent whenever I ask someone why they don’t like science fiction. Rather than asking for examples that defy these clichés so many will just write off the entire genre as being riddled with it. It’d be like me writing of period dramas as padded, devoid of relevance, devoid of real conflict and tedious.But I’d be doing the fans and myself a disservice. One bad experience is not a good basis for an opinion of an entire genre. 

Monday 23 December 2013

Father and Son (Writer's Quibble prose)

This is a prose piece that was published in The Writer's Quibble. The theme for the issue was horror. Special thanks to Tom Ashton for letting me repost this here. 

“Lock the door son!” I screamed to him, over the sound of the passengers panicking; some of them had spotted the other plane drawing closer. I saw the door lock, my eyelids scrunched up, and tears oozed from the slits. There came a deafening crash, my body was helpless against the powerful wind that sucked me out. I saw the burning cabin get smaller. I turned my head and saw the other plane careening out of control. I had no bearing on what was happening. I could see a large white panel spiralling towards me. There was a crunch. I spotted blood fly out of my mouth and chest. I felt lighter. Stabbing pain and nausea were accompanied by a strong draft in my lower torso. My body flopped around in the sky.  I dreaded the landing, but I was feeling lighter now, maybe I could fly. Fly back to my son. Make sure he was ok. I looked at my stomach. Slithers of blood were flapping and spraying in the breeze. Something long and slimy had slipped out of my abdomen and was dancing like an eel.
I drifted and dropped. Lower and lower. Lighter and lighter. A rain of blood accompanying my wet thump against the ground.   
I snapped out of the daze. My son was holding my hand. He wasn’t smiling. I looked back and two women packed into thick winter coats were also holding hands. They were both roughly of similar height but one looked much younger than the other.
I know them, I thought to myself.
“Mind you don’t slip sweetie.” She called out to my son. They were my wife and daughter. It must be those scarves and coats, I reasoned to myself, that’s why I didn’t recognise them.
The pavement was slippery. A thick layer of ice made us stumble on occasion. The grit offered some footing but we all had to tread carefully. The Christmas lights sent twinkling reflections to the puddles on the road until they resembled a colourful night sky. The moonlight struck the buildings making them a dull blue, like my son’s eyes.  
Were we just going for a walk? It’s strange. I thought we were Christmas shopping but we didn’t have any bags of presents. We must have just been out for a walk then. I think we’d come to look at the Christmas lights.
“Do you like the lights?” I said.
My boy looked up at me.
“What?” he queried.
I smiled down at him as we walked.
“I said do you like the Christmas lights” I paused, “son?”
“Yes” he replied. “It’s not Christmas though. But I like the lights. That’s why they’re there.”
Not Christmas? What on Earth does he mean by that? I thought to myself. Perhaps he’s just being oddly pedantic for a child of his age. Yes, his age. I furrowed my brow and tried to remember what that was. God I must be a terrible father. As that thought lolled around my head I failed to notice the little mitten slipping out of my gloved hand.
It was only when I stopped to tread around some dog muck that I noticed he wasn’t there. I looked around and spotted him on the road looking at some lights running between lamp posts. I looked to the girls who were staring back at me. I slipped a little on the ice as I darted forward. I found my footing on the road and not a moment too soon as the slick tarmac started to glitter with the yellow light of car headlights. My son hadn’t budged. The car started screeching to a halt but it would still hit him. I only had one chance. I had to get him out of the way myself. The leering lights drew closer to us; I was just inches away from him.
The moment I felt his jacket against my palm I pushed. My shoulder surged with all available strength, my elbow keeping the trajectory upwards. His body was launched into the air, I worried for a moment if he’d be hurt by the fall but before I could go to him, the car’s headlights were blinding me.
The car rammed into my chest, my face thumped on the bonnet. I woke up as soon as my skull shattered on the road. My head jerked against the soft pillow coated with sweat. I leant up and wiped some perspiration off of my brow and neck. A woman with tight brown curls in her hair lay next to me, a perfect smile on her lips. She was picturesque and contented. Her right arm covered her breasts and her left hand was buried in her thick curls.
I peeled the sheets off of my clammy body and made my way to an en suite. We must be in a hotel. I filled a plastic cup with water and greedily swilled it down. For a while I stood in the doorway looking at her. I looked at the tiny freckles on her nose, her smooth skin; gorgeous. The hotel room looked pretty nice, wood panelled walls, rustic furnishings. I guess they were going for a log cabin look.
Then there came loud fast knocks at the door. I almost dropped my water. I put some jeans on and scampered to the door, the knocking didn’t stop.
“Alright, alright! Jeez, will you hold on a second?”
I opened the door and saw two young kids before me. One a round faced girl, slightly pudgy. The other was a boy. My boy. Short cropped hair and dull blue eyes.
“Hey you!” I said. “You better be quiet, you’ll wake up… erm…”
The girl next to him chimed in.
“Is mummy sleeping?”
“Err. Yes. She is. Mummy is sleeping.”
From behind, I heard her calling to me.
“Is that the kids?”
“Yeah.” I said “Hey, kids. Why don’t you go to your room and wait for mummy and daddy to get changed? We’ll come get you when we’re dressed and then we can all get some breakfast.”
The corridors were rather nicely furnished too. Red wallpaper, in keeping with the warm tone, I liked this place. The kids walked by our sides and I held my wife’s hand. Daughter and mother held hands and swung them back and forth. I reached out for my son’s hand but he didn’t respond; he looked on down the corridor. The end of the corridor filled with four men dressed in grey camouflage, flak jackets and black balaclavas. They looked directly at us. One of them slowly aimed a pistol down at us. No one moved. Not until he opened fire. The beautiful curled hair on my wife’s head scattered around the corridor with bits of scalp. Her head leaked a red slop speckled with bits of grey. The girl screamed and ran away, shrinking down the hallway until another shot chased her down. I grabbed my son, held his small body tightly against my chest and ran. No shots were fired, the boy struggled in my arms, and I heard booted footsteps behind me.
I reached the elevators, one was slightly open. I put my son down and pushed the doors apart. I looked down the deep pit. I could make out a network of scaffolding we might be able to climb down. I could hear the steady advance of boots, the rattle of flak jacket zips.
“Come on, I’ll give you a piggy back.” I said to him, trying to make it sound like a game.
He obediently clambered on my back and wrapped his arms and legs around me. I got inside the elevator shaft, with my feet slanted on a thin ledge I tried to pull the doors back into place. I gave up when I sensed I was losing my footing. I edged along the ledge until we were completely behind one of the doors. I peeked out of the gap and saw the four men congregated and exchanging glances. They didn’t say anything. All four of them looked at the door we were hiding behind then back to each other. They turned and left quietly.
When I felt like they were gone for long enough I pushed at one of the doors. My son leaned forward and shoved at the door. My feet fumbled. I prepared my hands to catch myself on the ledge. I just managed but not before my chin struck it causing my head to lurch back. I didn’t hit the kid though. Thank god. The opening was just wide enough for him to get though.
“Climb up.” I said “Climb up daddy’s back and through the doors.”
He gripped my shirt tightly, his fingers pinched my skin. His foot pushed down on my shoulder and then the other one. I gave a satisfied sigh when I saw him clamber onto the ledge. The gap I’d made in the doors was perfect for him. He then turned around. In between the doors with the light shining behind, he looked like he was in a picture frame. He looked down at me. His dull blue eyes were all I could focus on. They were almost grey. He smiled. I realised then that I’d never seen him smile. I hadn’t seen him smile since, since when? I don’t think I know his name.
 He bit in his lower lip, raised his little leg up, and brought his foot down on my left hand, digging his ankle into my finger joints. Before I could scream he’d lifted his foot again and planted it on my nose.
I fell. Of course I fell. I plummeted into the deep rectangular cave. All that went through my mind was: why did he do that? The dry air was cutting into my eyes, I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t see the bottom. I couldn’t see the scaffolding. I couldn’t see what my body whooshed past but my head stuck to.      
Why won’t he love me? I gave that little shit life didn’t I? Didn’t I? Even if I didn’t then he must know that I care for him, I keep saving him. Why does my child hate me? I wish I could hate him, and then there might be respite from this.


End.

Andrew Krska, 'Father and Son': 

Primordial Puddle (Writer's Quibble Poetry)

This is a poetry piece that was published in The Writer's Quibble. The theme for the issue was origins. Special thanks to Quibble editor Tom Ashton for letting me repost it here. 

In the puddles of amino acids
strings twist and contort.
Life gains form and thought.
The needlework of God, threads the double helix.

They have no eyes, no sense,
just protoplasm and membrane.
Life simple enough to retain
the jelly of all that is to come, all that will die.

In these puddles molecules
click together like puzzle pieces.
Life will spread forth to all reaches.
The universe trembles.


End.

Andrew Krska, 'Primordial Puddles': 

Halls of Glory (Writer's Quibble prose)

This is a prose piece that was published in The Writer's Quibble. The theme of the issue was origins. Special thanks go to Quibble editor Tom Ashton for letting me repost it here. 

The gloriously well-lit entrance promises a history of the men of tomorrow. Howard grinned at the brass statue of Captain Eternity holding the Earth with a single hand. On the plaque it reads “Captain Eternity; the best of us; a leader of peace and justice”. Howard’s grin faded a little, in the brief while he knew Captain Eternity he knew him as a domineering, aggressive man. Not quite the poster child for everything that’s good in the world. Howard pondered for a moment: I guess that kind of power and position would drive anyone to become a bit of an asshole.
On the far side of the statue’s base was a brief biography.
“Captain Eternity: Born from a poor family in the Bronx, Alex Capricorn was a solitary child. As an adult he spent his time moving between blue collar jobs. It was an accident working in a particle physics lab as a janitor that transformed his life and the lives of thousands of others. Alex was subjected to the same primordial forces that accelerated evolution in the early days of earth. He was granted enhanced speed, agility and strength, as well as the ability to fly and produce concussive blasts from his hands. It is speculated that he also had telepathy.”
Howard found himself rather dumbstruck. Shit, he thought, that bastard had telepathy? That explains a lot. It explained how he knew Firebug would turn on the Miracle Squad. Why he kicked the Alpha-Man off the team. The guy must have read Alpha-Man’s mind, realised he was embezzling team funds.
“Son of a bitch” Howard muttered aloud.
Around the statue pictures were being taken, the bluish light bounced off of the polished brass, Howard winced and readjusted his spectacles. One avid looking tourist had multiple flashes on and was stood uncomfortably close. Howard thrust a hand into his shoulder.
“Hey buddy, mind not flashing that thing so damn close? Some of us got sensitive eyes.”
Howard ignored the man as he floundered with an apology. Beyond Captain Eternity’s statue was the gallery of other members of the Miracle Squad. The B-listers. Guys like Alpha-Man and Captain Eternity had their own sections. Anyone else got a little mention in this gallery. Firebug wasn’t in here, made sense. Howard’s chest pranged with nostalgia when he saw the portrait of Reptile-Girl, and her famous silver bracers. Her bio was actually wrong. Howard knew exactly where she got her powers from. It wasn’t an accident like with Captain Eternity, like the bio said. She knew what she was getting into, human genome enhancement experiments involving various animal test subjects. It gave her skin that could deflect bullets. Howard remembered the Christmas party when she told him. She told him she knew what would happen in the experiment, she was smarter than everyone gave her credit for. Not a good drinker though, if he remembered correctly. Howard looked closely at the silver bracers. They still had that long scratch on them from when he threw them on the bedroom along with the rest of her clothes.
He wandered the echoing corridors until he saw what he was looking for. A torn piece of cloth stretched over a pedestal, illuminated by an overhead light. It was an insignia; black ‘A’ against a field of red; the insignia of Alpha-Man. Howard took his hat off and pressed it to his chest. Around the edges were grey with ash and dotted with blood. Howard heard a familiar voice behind him.
“You know he has a grave, right?”
Jack Maximilien’s voice was high pitched and felt like it cut through your skull. Howard recognized him straight away.
“Jack. Leave me alone.” Howard said.
“Oh get over it already. Firebug killed him. Not you.” His high pitch resonated around the small room.
“Why are you here anyway? In case you hadn’t noticed there are no villains to pay homage to.”
“Get off your high horse Howard. Firebug may have burned Alpha-Man but someone still told him where to find him.”
Howard threw his hat to the floor and faced Jack, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. Jack smiled.
“Give over Shadow Knight. We don’t do this anymore. Besides, if I remember rightly I kicked your ass last time.”
Howard looked down at the marble floor. He picked his hat up, dusted it off and put it back on again.
“I- err… I don’t go by Shadow Knight anymore.” Howard said.
Jack wiped his forehead and sighed.
“Sorry. I was going to try to cheer you up. Let’s umm… Let’s get a beer.”
Howard’s mouth dropped a little. He didn’t say anything. Jack tried to put on a friendly face.
“Yeah, come on. I mean, you just said you’re not Shadow Knight anymore. I’m not Blackjack either. We’re just two guys who know each other catching up.”
“I don’t know” Howard mumbled before looking at Jack’s desperate attempt to look accommodating, “Pfft, go on then.”
“Atta boy Howie!” Jack said as he slapped Howard’s shoulder.
The two men walked out of the museum together, arms over each other’s shoulders.
“Hey” Howard started, “Did you know Captain Eternity was telepathic? I wonder if he knew about me and Reptile Girl.”
“Howard, I was fighting you guys and I knew.”


 End.

Andrew Krska, 'Halls of Glory':

And Then There Was Beer (Writer's Quibble Poem)

This is a poem I wrote for The Writer's Quibble. The theme was inebriation. The poem itself ended up winning the reader's poll for poetry that month. Special thanks to Quibble Editor Tom Ashton for letting me repost this poem here.

And to cope with the darkness and all the fear
God gave unto Adam some wonderful beer.
“Praise be to God” said Adam with glee
“It’s cool man. Let’s watch some TV”.
And lo they did skip and browse the listings
But for all their looking, searching, scanning and sifting
There was bugger all on.

God gave unto Adam some pizzas as well.
Adam thought to himself “Gee, isn’t God swell?”.
So they ate all their slices and drank all the booze
Until Adam became tired and decided to snooze.
And lo he entered his bed for the night,
Lest he knock the bed and give his wife a fright.
And then he dozed off.

When Adam awoke his wife was most pissed
For his puke fell around the bucket he missed.
And Eve said to Adam “You were intoxicated last night”
As Adam tried not to expose his eyes to the light.
“Quiet dear my head hurts a lot”
Said Adam as Eve banged on a pot.
Adam gave God a call.

“Hey God what did we do last night”
“Oh mostly get drunk and talk shite”
God said he could make a beast from a duck and an otter
Adam believed him to be off of his rocker.
But God kept his word and made up a creature
And it had a bill and a tail and other strange features.
So God was hammered when he made platypuses.

Here endeth the lesson.

End. 

Andrew Krska, 'And then there was Beer' in Writer's Quibble Fifth Edition ed., Tom Ashton: 

Dear Freshers; A Word from the Crinkly and Old (Dusted Article)

This is an article I wrote for the Derby Student Union Magazine (Dusted). Special thanks go to its editor Gemma Pask for allowing me to post it here. 

So you’ve decided to come to the University of Derby. Naturally, if you’ve never been to Derby before, this is all a little daunting. I myself was more than a little unsure of what to do when I first arrived at university so I spent about two weeks being completely aimless. I thought I’d hand out some advice that you’ve probably not heard yet about how you can enjoy these brief couple of weeks.
Getting to know your flatmates. I didn’t really hang out with my flatmates in first year, they were probably grateful of the fact since I was generally quiet and reclusive and most of them were loud and outgoing. I still went out from time to time; I just wasn’t into it as them. I go out more now but with my classmates whom I share a lot more in common with.
So why would I suggest the obvious rule of getting to know your flatmates? Well the first few days can be really awkward and planning a night out with people you don’t know is a bit weird. But I still highly recommend it. These are the first people you’re going to meet. If you don’t get on with them then it’ll help to get that initial awkwardness out of the way. And if it turns out like me you don’t really click with them then at least you tried. If you let the initial awkwardness get the better of you then you’ll potentially miss out on new friends, or at the very least someone to complain about.
I don’t drink, what do I do? Ah, this is a difficult question. University life is often built upon a solid foundation of pretending to study and consuming way too much booze. So to answer this question I’m going to present you with an after school special solution: be yourself, don’t cave to peer-pressure. If you want to start drinking then that’s fine (I know one man who didn’t start until he came to University), but be sure it’s what you really want, not that you’re just doing it to fit in. If you’re T-total then keep in mind the reasons why you made that choice, whether it’s for health reasons or religious reasons or other reasons.
Chances are you’re going to be surrounded by people who love to have a drink and will use this newfound freedom to test their limits. This can leave you feeling outcast, but generally speaking there will be some like-minded people around who you can hang out with, and there are many societies created with the intention of doing something besides drinking. If you’re worried that your flatmates will find you tedious then perhaps you could try to engage them in other activities during Freshers’ Fortnight. Whether it’s sports, music, fashion or cooking, it’s worth trying to get to know them even if you don’t drink with them.
I want to get laid. Ah yes, drunkenly fumbling around with someone who doesn’t know your name, never mind what turns you on, the stuff love songs are made of. Really bad love songs usually. If you want my advice I’d suggest you don’t go out with the intention of finding sex. Because if you don’t find a nice young lady or prince charming to come home with then chances are you’ll be going back in a bad mood. If you’re going out just to have fun and you happened upon someone to bump uglies with then it’ll be a bonus.
Of course it goes without saying that you should stay safe. For goodness sake use protection, and if you find yourself going back to someone else’s place make sure your friends now where you’re going.
I feel I should also mention that you should understand if the person you’re grinding up against doesn’t want to have sex with you. If you start yelling at them and calling them a tease just because they danced with but decided against sleeping with you, then you’re being a bit of a jerk. Every person should reserve the right to say no. That’s how the law works. 
If you don’t pull during Fresher’s don’t get mopey about it, it’s only two weeks of your time here.
 On making funny stories. “Dude that one time I was so wasted that I…” Pretty much all students want a story like this. Much like one night stands I advise you don’t go out with the intention of making them. Because forcing something funny to happen negates the impromptu nature of it. Go out to have a good time and focus on that. If something funny happens, great!

Oh and for those living in Nunnery Court, don’t bother doing anything with the fountain. Messing around with the fountain isn’t funny. I should know, I mucked about in the fountain for a laugh and the only way the story was funny was when I embellished upon it. Wrapping someone in toilet paper and threatening to do unspeakable things to them with barbed wire was funny. 

End.

Andrew Krska, 'Dear Freshers; A Word from the Crinkly and Old', in: Dusted (Derby, October 2013) Issue 1 Academic year 13/14, page 16-17.