For many students, the second year of university can come with its unique set of challenges and opportunities, except for college kids who just do the exact same thing as last year except they’re now permitted to brutally haze the first-years, instead of being the victims of such hazing.

But for some students, second-year is an indicator of something far more than the fact they managed to get through two semesters. It means ‘you’ve made it, bud. You’re a superstar now.’

And for local BAFE student Robbie Spurmann (19), it’s an opportunity to rediscover the brief taste of power most Churchie students experience as some sort of vague House/Spirit/’I Love The First XV’/Straddie Pre-Schoolies Captain in Year 12.

‘Yeah, I’m two semesters deep, and at this point I pretty much run the place,’ said the young man, his words spoken almost entirely out of the side of his mouth.

‘Once you’ve sunk enough jugs at the Reddo, and given enough chicks a tongue-lashing at the RE, you’re pretty much an expert,’ he muttered, conveniently ignoring the fact he’d been using his older brother’s fake ID to get into Ivory Tusk (why the fuck is it called that now, by the way). That was at least until two months ago, wherein his ‘Lad’s 18th’ was marked by nineteen separate incidents of vomiting after two ‘double rumbos, haha’ and nineteen separate incidents of blokes being absolutely tragic, which coincidentally, were the same incidents.

Whilst Robbie’s peers raise their eyebrows at his bizarrely unearned confidence, it has earned the ire of an even more strange set of students: third-years. The odd seniority felt by those who are objectively twenty is a social phenomena few study, but as phrases like ‘Look, it’s my third year, I know what I’m doing’ begin to be thrown around campus, it is worth taking a long, hard, sweaty look at these key issues.

Good luck to the boys in the Firsts this year though, hope you get up against Nudgee.

No more to slum.