i arrived in merseyside barefoot, as i always am, because shoes are a cage for the soul and the soul must be free to smell things. the headline had promised me places for smelling students, and i took it literally, because i am a critic and i believe in the body’s truth. the first thing i smelled was a bus shelter in birkenhead, and it was not students. it was a man called gary who had been waiting for the 41 since 1993. he told me the students smell of ‘hope and lynx africa’, and i wrote that down in my notebook, which is made of recycled paper and also my tears. gary said he had not been on a bus since 1994 because the seats were ‘too political’. i did not ask what he meant. i was too busy smelling the air, which smelled of diesel and disappointment and something that might have been a dream, but probably wasn’t.
the central library, where the books are quiet and the students are not
the second place was the central library in liverpool, a grand old building that smells of paper and ambition and, on the third floor, a student called jemima who was asleep in the poetry section. she smelled of stale red bull and moral compromise, and i understood her completely. i woke her gently and asked her what she was studying. ‘i’m doing a phd in the semiotics of the meal deal,’ she said, and i wept. i wept because the meal deal is the only honest thing left in this country, and she knew it. she told me the library was the best place to smell students because they come here to escape the smell of their own lives. i lay on the floor of the poetry section and the floor was cold and the floor was honest. i hope jemima gets everything she wants, except the things she thinks she wants, which are a 2:1 and a job in marketing. the smell of her was the smell of a generation giving up, and it was beautiful, in a tragic, non-recyclable way.
greggs on church street, where the sausage rolls are warm and the dreams are not
the third place was a greggs on church street, which is the cathedral of our time. the queue was long and the air was thick with the smell of sausage rolls and unpaid tuition fees. i asked a young man called callum, who was buying a vegan bake and a bottle of water, what he was studying. ‘i’m doing a degree in business management,’ he said, and i felt a darkness rise in me, old and patient. i said, ‘so you are learning to manage the business of being a cog in the machine that will chew you up and spit you out,’ and he said, ‘no, it’s actually quite good for my cv.’ i ate a sausage roll and it was warm and flaky and it tasted of nothing, which is the taste of capitalism. i asked the woman behind the counter, a saint called debbie, if she had ever smelled a student. she said, ‘all day, love. they smell of desperation and fake tan.’ i wrote that down and i hope debbie is visited in the night by a goose that knows her worth. the smell of the students in greggs was the smell of a society that has given up on its young, and it was delicious, in a way that made me want to die.
the bombed-out church, where the revolution is damp
the fourth place was the bombed-out church on bold street, which is a ruin and therefore honest. the students come here to sit on the steps and drink cheap cider and smell of rebellion and wet cardboard. i spoke to a woman called siobhan, who was wearing a balaclava and a coat that said ‘eat the rich’ in biro. she told me she was studying ‘the aesthetics of resistance’ and that she had been to three protests this week. ‘but the protest is not the point,’ she said. ‘the point is the feeling of standing together against the machine.’ i asked her what the machine was, and she said, ‘the machine is everything, man. the bus, the library, greggs. even the church, which is already dead.’ i lay on the steps and the stone was cold and the stone was honest. i hope siobhan’s balaclava keeps her warm, because the revolution is damp and the students are the only ones who know it. the smell of the students here was the smell of hope, but hope with a sell-by date, and the date was yesterday.
the mersey ferry, where the wind smells of rain and regret
the fifth and final place was the mersey ferry terminal, where the wind comes off the water and the students come off the train. i stood barefoot on the concrete and the concrete was cold and the concrete was honest. a group of students were waiting for the ferry, and they smelled of rain and regret and the faint, hopeful scent of a joint smoked behind the bins. i asked one of them, a boy called liam who was wearing a beanie in september, what he was studying. ‘i’m doing a degree in nothing,’ he said. ‘i’m just here for the vibe.’ i understood him completely. i asked him what the vibe was, and he said, ‘the vibe is the smell of the mersey, man. it’s the smell of everything that has ever been lost.’ i wept again, because he was right. the smell of the students at the ferry was the smell of the future, and the future smells of wet socks and deferred dreams. i did not get on the ferry. i stayed on the shore, barefoot, and i smelled the students, and i knew that this was the closest i would ever come to borscht, which is to say, the closest i would ever come to home, and home is a place where the potatoes are boiled and the state is a lie.
