The first thing that hits most new arrivals on their inaugural visit to UCD is size. The place is enormous. It's ugly, huge,intimidating, grey and potentially home to some of the most interesting and entertaining years of your life.

I recall feeling like a citizen of Lilliput among the gladiatorial surroundings of the arts block lecture theatres hoping to spot a familiar face or a spot on the wall to look at while I gathered my bearings. It took about three or four weeks to find a groove in which to fit.

Firstly, the subjects - history and politics with Greek and Roman civilisation. Secondly, the social circle - a mix of old school friends and a selection of non-pretentious movie lovers who liked coffee, pints and the Beatles to accompany nonsensical debates about political events of the day - Clinton's first election, or contemporary history unfolding before our eyes (the Downing Street declaration). Thirdly, the extra curriculars - sifting through the clubs and societies for something pertinent to oneself, which in my case meant the History Society and a little Student Union activism.

Once in the fold, UCD became my own little universe. I had my own president, my own government, bank, health ministry, chancellor of the exchequer and ministry of fun.

I didn't have to leave the campus for anything other than clean clothes (which were dealt with by my mum/slave in Booterstown, just down the road).

The difficulty with this was that it lead to a trench mentality which made you feel as though there was nothing else out there, but for the sake of three years of fun and games (and, of course, lots of study) why would I argue?. The best approach was to get stuck in, have some fun, bag a degree and worry about the future another day.

At school , I expected a stereotype student with third rate clothes, socialist leanings, a love of doobie and ability to drink excessive amounts of cheap beer. Bavaria, anyone?

On arriving at the Belfield campus I wasn't in the least bit surprised to see that the myth was in fact a reality and so, rather than conform, I rebelled and wore preppy clothes, leaned to the political right and became fussy about the kind of beer I liked. I refused to own a Nirvana poster, smoke rollies or play computer games in the bar.

The UCD bar was the nearest anyone of my generation came to a bunker in Stalingrad circa 1942. It was a machine for drinking in. No pretence was made to make you feel wanted or loved. Yellow cellophane-wrapped toasted ham and cheesers were the plat du jour. The toilet was a metal trough and the last call for alcohol came via a distorted microphone last used by terrorists in the Middle East. Relationships were forged in the after tastes of free lager and finished off over a plastic pint glass.We loved it.

The departments were a tribute to good manners, top class organisation and excellent education. The Greek and Roman years were some of my favourite. Learning about the intrigue of the Caesars, the debauchery of the Greeks and the fall of the Roman empire helped greatly to prepare me for a life in RTÉ.

Years one and two were not exactly times of academic endeavour. It was possible to have fun and spend minutes at a time in the library. Speaking of which, the library was a curious place.

As security increased during the early 1990s, coming and going became increasingly like a visit to the Berlin Wall. Once through, the mind wandered from Aristotle to the girl on the left three desks down and back to Charles Stewart Parnell. Literary flirting became de rigueur as the library became a fertile courting ground. No where and no-one was safe.

I tended to avoid the debating societies which were incubators for stand-up comedians and would be barristers (spot the difference). I should add that the gut rott masquerading as wine was enough to keep any potential orator at bay. The political parties were nonsense and fun at the same time with Fianna Fail living up to its name as curious party, especially the Christmas one.

The students union was like a smokers' refuge. Dozens of book-avoiders (myself included) gathered to write for the paper, shaft a colleague or draft a document bound for a shredder in the administration building.

Ultimately, my years as an arts student between 1991 and 1994 were some of my happiest.

And while I don't miss going to the bank machine for that last £5 note, I made fine friends, got a more than satisfactory academic grounding and bagged myself an experience I will take with me to the grave.

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