Published on December 22nd, 2015 | by Flipside0
Writing for Flipside will be the worst thing you do next semester
It is the end of Semester One. The mid-point of the academic year, and the stage where you probably begin to realise you’ve achieved fuck all so far in the current academic cycle. You handed in some mediocre essays, been to the Hive a few times (you never even pulled anyone vaguely attractive) and your post-university employment prospects are looking bleak.
It might be at this stage that you start thinking about joining some new societies next semester: taking on some responsibility, making new friends and learning new skills, all sounds very enticing, but we must warn you – don’t join Flipside. It’s shit. If you’re looking for a new publication to join, join The Tab. Look here if you need persuading – http://thetab.com/uk/edinburgh/2015/12/17/writing-for-the-tab-edinburgh-will-be-the-best-thing-you-do-next-semester-20093
Absolutely don’t join Flipside. In case it’s not clear and your still lured, listen to what our staff have to say about being part of the most horrible, thankless and time-consuming society that the University of Edinburgh has to offer. Be warned, the content is graphic and soul destroying:
Niall Moorjani – President
‘Last year I was an enthusiastic third year enjoying my life and consistently hitting reasonable mid-2:1 marks in all my assignments. Becoming President of Flipside changed all that – the expectation is too great. Sometimes, I wake in the middle of the night, restless from the weight of the burden of knowing that we might not have done enough sponsoring on our Facebook posts to ensure every fresher has read our article about the Teviot cash machine. It’s a nervous existence and I hate it. I regret ever crossing the letter ‘F’.
David Bard – Writer
‘A couple of weeks ago I was going to hand in a physical copy of my essay into the department’s dropbox, when ‘it’ happened. A large group of girls were walking in the opposite direction, and despite focusing my gaze solely on the wall behind them, one caught my eye. “Hang on” she said. “Isn’t that the guy who writes for Flipside?” I tried to turn and run but it was too late, they mobbed and grappled with me, demanding that I show them the document in my hand. They were so thirsty for satire that even when I explained that this was an exam essay on post-raphaelite surrealist postmodern archi-drawing, and not the secret draft of my latest article they craved, they wouldn’t relent. By the time I had got away, it was too late. I’d missed my deadline, and all for Flipside.
Daniel Swain – Ex-Editor-in-Chief
‘If you think that Flipside will help your career prospects, think again. Mention it on LinkedIn, and at interviews you’ll be met with disgust – followed by the interviewer asking if you wrote the article about Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s neknomination – or complete bemusement. If you explain that it’s a student publication, they’ll probably ask if it’s like The Tab, to which you can only laugh into your sleeve and say ‘I wish’. Flipside is nothing outside of Edinburgh. It’s like a wank stain, in CV form, and I can’t believe I ever did as much as associate my name with its existence.
Poppy-Anna Waterman – Secretary
‘It’s the same every time. You write the article, you edit it, you put it online, it gets a few likes, and people tag their friends in the comments, sometimes adding awful emoticons alongside them. This doesn’t mask the reality. You know that really, your article is fucking awful. No matter how big the response is from the brain-dead, clickbait-loving mass of middle class students/drones that populate this university, it’s almost definitely not funny. Someone at the Onion has produced the same thing with more clever references and literary devices. It’s soul-destroying.’
If you’re still interested, come to Brass Monkey on Drummond Street at 4pm each Wednesday. Wednesday after Wednesday after Wednesday.