Balls are shit

Before the evening of the ball begins, I have to pretend to give a shit, spending another 90 sodding quid renting a white tie. The ball committee swan around like royalty, dedicating months of hard labour (read: sending emails) all for a pat on the back from the proctor and some well-deserved CV points. Well fucking done.

Wow, really luxurious…

For the cost of a short holiday break to Budapest, let’s all stand in a cold, shitty marquee, sipping watered-down Sex on the Beach surrounded by losers we’ve never seen except shuffling to and from the library.

The music is shit. The DJs are those very same you can see for a fiver in Babylove or even fucking Carbon. You have the esteemed privilege of dancing with giant,stupid headphones on with the sound quality of a Sony Walkman circa 1998 – all because of some dumb Council noise level rule.

Real life Supermarket DJ

How many tiny Mission Burritos equate to the cost of my ball ticket? Why would I pay £100 to wait in a twenty-minute queue for noodles? At the risk of rupturing all the ligaments in my knees, why would I possibly want to have a go on Dodgems and interact with all the fucking brainless morons that run it? Am I 10? No, I’m fucking 21 and I just went on Dodgems after sinking 4 shitty pints and some questionable Jager-substitution that will paint my shit charcoal tomorrow.

How can I enjoy my seventh zebra burger knowing full well there are certain student musicians here that have performed for forty minutes and received a free ticket? How can I prevent myself from thinking of all the cocaine I could have spent instead of stuffing crap pizza into my mouth and trying to get into as many photos as possible?

Actual live shot from Catz ball this year

I wake up the next day, hungover and with a stranger in my bed. Self-loathing permeates my very core. Put it this way, for the cost of a ticket and my rented tie, I could have bought a lot of Domino’s and a lot of ketamine.