21-year-old Rupert Cope isn’t your everyday undergraduate. While he may share the same interests and socialise with his peers, the man from Chiswick possesses a certain quality that sets him apart from his contemporaries: though still a raw 21, Rupert holds the mindset and mannerisms of a man well beyond his years. This student is less sex, drugs and rock n roll and more pipe, slippers and cup of tea.
Usually sporting a dishevelled beard akin to that of an aging goat, the West Londoner readily embraces the tricks and traits of the elder statesman, such as smoking a traditional pipe and drinking fine real ales. A flick through his CD collection indicates his love for classic crooners such as Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole, while it appears that the man is unaware that films do actually come in colour, as classic black-and-whites like Casablanca and Gone with the Wind dominate his film collection.
As I sit down to converse with the Bournemouth student, I gain a sense of what it must be like to be the person behind the camera interviewing the likes of Jeremy Clarkson or Bob Geldof on the BBC series Grumpy Old Men. I am bombarded by nostalgic reflections of how ‘everything used to cost less’, ‘people used to talk more’ and how the world generally used to be a ‘simpler place’.
Perhaps the saddest part of Rupert’s premature dotage is that he once, not so long ago, was an ebullient young man with real dreams and aspirations. That was a time before the ‘cruel reality’ of life had not embittered his character, a time when, as a talented football player, Rupert would terrorise defences playing in youth ranks at Brentford and Fulham. The same young Rupert had a zest for life, travelling across the globe to America and the Caribbean, hiking up mountains in Switzerland and even winning a surfing competition in Australia.
Though a return to his former positive self seems unlikely, one source of hope comes in the form of girlfriend Melissa Kane, whom Rupert concedes is the only thing that ‘helps keep him young’. And, with a romantic mini-break in Paris planned for the forthcoming weekend, there might just be life in the old dog yet.
Key Facts
Full Name: Rupert David George Cope
Nicknames: Granddad, Goat-Boy
D.O.B: 09.07.1987
Place of Birth: Chiswick, West London
Occupation: Student (Bournemouth)
Previous Employment: Sales Assistant
Interests: Sport, Pipes, Old Men’s Pubs
Marital Status: Single
Girlfriend: Melissa, 27
Tuesday, 28 October 2008
A Life in the Day: Rich Best
My alarm screams. Then a frenzied moment when I try to piece together the debaucheries of last night and the gravity of this latest hangover hits me. I glance around my room, surveying the damage. I head over to the mirror to check for any war-wounds. My foot (the one without the loafer still on it) sinks itself into an unspotted pile of vomit. I growl in anguish, then pause to meditate on where this hedonistic life is taking me.
As I discover the leftovers of the kebab sprawled across my desk, I remember what day it is and where I should be. I stumble into the shower, shaking off my clothes hurriedly. After a brief wash I rummage around desperately trying to find some clean clobber to wear. Darting down the stairs I run into my brother, who, upon determining my hungover disposition, pipes up ‘Good night, then, was it?’. I’m in no mood for his cheek. I’ve got places to go and people to see – and I’m already running late.
I somehow make the bus in time (having skipped breakfast) and spot my mate Denny (who was also out last night) curled up in the foetal position on the back seat. I join him to reflect upon 7 pints of Foster’s, 2 pints of Strongbow, 5 Sambuca shots and 2 Apple Sourz, not to mention the Indian that began the evening and the kebab that finished it. Denny looks quite possibly even worse than I do. That’s little consolation at this moment, though, as the jolting bus journey twists and turns my stomach. We share mutual, adolescent mumblings.
By the time we reach our destination, the Sixth-Form College, I feel like I’ve been struck repeatedly by a wrecking-ball. Meanwhile, Denny’s face is so convulsed and blue that he could comfortably pass for Papa Smurf. We feel all the worse when we see those wise academics who chose not to live it up on a school-night and have completed their assignments. Accosted by a group of pals, we exchange banter and compare hangovers, before being summoned to our first lessons by the bell.
In one way or another I manage to survive the morning lessons. The lunchtime bell sounds like a sweet, Heavenly choir. I skip lunch, fearing that whatever I ingest, I might see again in an hour or two. Anyway, I have more important things to be concerning myself with – such as meeting up with some girls from the girls’ school across the road. I spend the afternoon with Laura (with whom a fling recently began), chilling out in the park and then going into town for a Shakeaway.
Be it my body fighting back or be it spending time with Laura, I feel better come late afternoon. Following a much-appreciated kiss, I make my way back home and call round my friends to catch up on what I missed in this afternoon’s lessons. For some strange reason, none of my mates can tell me what I missed! I converse briefly with my family before putting together a spot of dinner – spag bol (the only thing I can cook).
I begin to ready myself for the madness and the mayhem of the coming evening – mentally as well as physically. As I splash crude levels of aftershave across my neck, I try to justify the motives behind my hedonistic plan: Why not? I’m young, raw and primed. I can do things now (physically) that I’ll never be able to do again. I’m free, responsible only for myself and am not weighed down by the stresses of a job. I have no bills to pay so I can spend my money on whatever I like. I’m at this glorious age when I hold the rights of a man but still only have the responsibilities of a boy – it’s like being immune from consequences.
In reality, I recognise the flaws of my argument. I stare vacantly at my reflection, contemplating yet another night of torturing my liver, stripping my wallet and sacrificing myself to an unfulfilling way of life in which vice and sensory pleasure dictate actions.
I hear the sound of drum n bass pumping out of a car and check the window to find my friend Ed pulling into my driveway. He is flanked by several others – all mates of mine, who look like they’ve already started on the beers. I look back at the mirror and ask myself is this really worth it? Is an inevitable hangover or a drunken nightclub brawl or a supposed sense of social acceptance and physical satisfaction really worth it?
Fuck it. The first Stella disappears, and I head out into the night…
As I discover the leftovers of the kebab sprawled across my desk, I remember what day it is and where I should be. I stumble into the shower, shaking off my clothes hurriedly. After a brief wash I rummage around desperately trying to find some clean clobber to wear. Darting down the stairs I run into my brother, who, upon determining my hungover disposition, pipes up ‘Good night, then, was it?’. I’m in no mood for his cheek. I’ve got places to go and people to see – and I’m already running late.
I somehow make the bus in time (having skipped breakfast) and spot my mate Denny (who was also out last night) curled up in the foetal position on the back seat. I join him to reflect upon 7 pints of Foster’s, 2 pints of Strongbow, 5 Sambuca shots and 2 Apple Sourz, not to mention the Indian that began the evening and the kebab that finished it. Denny looks quite possibly even worse than I do. That’s little consolation at this moment, though, as the jolting bus journey twists and turns my stomach. We share mutual, adolescent mumblings.
By the time we reach our destination, the Sixth-Form College, I feel like I’ve been struck repeatedly by a wrecking-ball. Meanwhile, Denny’s face is so convulsed and blue that he could comfortably pass for Papa Smurf. We feel all the worse when we see those wise academics who chose not to live it up on a school-night and have completed their assignments. Accosted by a group of pals, we exchange banter and compare hangovers, before being summoned to our first lessons by the bell.
In one way or another I manage to survive the morning lessons. The lunchtime bell sounds like a sweet, Heavenly choir. I skip lunch, fearing that whatever I ingest, I might see again in an hour or two. Anyway, I have more important things to be concerning myself with – such as meeting up with some girls from the girls’ school across the road. I spend the afternoon with Laura (with whom a fling recently began), chilling out in the park and then going into town for a Shakeaway.
Be it my body fighting back or be it spending time with Laura, I feel better come late afternoon. Following a much-appreciated kiss, I make my way back home and call round my friends to catch up on what I missed in this afternoon’s lessons. For some strange reason, none of my mates can tell me what I missed! I converse briefly with my family before putting together a spot of dinner – spag bol (the only thing I can cook).
I begin to ready myself for the madness and the mayhem of the coming evening – mentally as well as physically. As I splash crude levels of aftershave across my neck, I try to justify the motives behind my hedonistic plan: Why not? I’m young, raw and primed. I can do things now (physically) that I’ll never be able to do again. I’m free, responsible only for myself and am not weighed down by the stresses of a job. I have no bills to pay so I can spend my money on whatever I like. I’m at this glorious age when I hold the rights of a man but still only have the responsibilities of a boy – it’s like being immune from consequences.
In reality, I recognise the flaws of my argument. I stare vacantly at my reflection, contemplating yet another night of torturing my liver, stripping my wallet and sacrificing myself to an unfulfilling way of life in which vice and sensory pleasure dictate actions.
I hear the sound of drum n bass pumping out of a car and check the window to find my friend Ed pulling into my driveway. He is flanked by several others – all mates of mine, who look like they’ve already started on the beers. I look back at the mirror and ask myself is this really worth it? Is an inevitable hangover or a drunken nightclub brawl or a supposed sense of social acceptance and physical satisfaction really worth it?
Fuck it. The first Stella disappears, and I head out into the night…
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