Trinity May Ball: Tits Up

It was billed as ‘still the best’, but nothing could be further from the truth. Trinity May Ball 2009 was an absolute shambles.

The queues stretched beyond sight and edged forward at barely a snail’s pace. And once at the front of the labyrinth, we were greeted by incompetence and stupidity all personified in one poor excuse for an individual. Seemingly unaware that she had more people to deal with than immigration at Calais, she processed the tickets with excessive scrutiny and an astonishingly unhurried manner.

One guest said: "I just wanted to grab the ticket officers and tell them all to hurry the f*** up. They insisted on clamping my wristband which took so long that i just grabbed it off him and tied it myself. "

Figures suggest over 100 people queued for over 3 hours and missed the fireworks. One such person, who had brought her parents told me: "It’s the highlight of the May Ball and all we could do was listen to them going off whilst standing in the queue. It was infuriating."

And once inside the Ball, things hardly improved. The hog roast ran out within a couple of hours leaving the majority of guests having to scoff down ‘veggie burgers’. That is of course after they had waited in yet another queue for the best part of an hour.

And as for the drinks. Yes there was champagne all night. Now I am no connoisseur, but I have a developed enough palette to be able to recognize the distinct flavours and aromas of ‘piss’. The stuff was bloody awful. 

Of course if one didn’t like the piss they could grab a cocktail. The very same cocktails your mum would let you drink because they were virtually all fruit juice. The bar staff told me that each drink had 1/2 unit of alcohol. 1/2 UNIT! And when I asked for a full single measure, or (heaven forbid), a double they told me that they were instructed not to do so but I was allowed to take as many drinks as I wanted. This was of course only to inflate my bladder and leave me paying regular trips to the port-a-loos which may I say, were very chic, and in fact the highlight of occasion.

The main act was ‘Hamfatter’. Need I say more. Well yes… They are S H I T E. Of course there were a few nameless, non-descript, ‘mathmos’ bopping away, but then again most of them smack their heads against walls and play with protractors.

Athlete performed well. However there was something slightly perverse about dancing to their biggest hit ‘wires’ – a song written about the lead singer’s premature baby.

And of course Wiley. As expected he only played a few tracks and bizarrely even cut those short. It seemed as though he was desperate to leave. I personally don’t blame him. Nonetheless there was something vaguely charming about watching the world’s most stupid man rabbitting on about his ‘gangstaaaaa lifestyle’ in a college that has produced the likes of Tennyson and Lord Byron. Still… he was ‘wearing his rolex’ so we have to give him some credit.

The evening culminated in the ‘survivor’s photo’ at 6:00. Never has the term ‘survivor’ been so appropriate. Amongst the crowd of guests waiting for their photo to be taken, were girls crying after being crushed by the onslaught of bodies. We were all looking up at the photographer, begging him to take the photo and let us go home. But he wouldn’t. "A bit to the right" he shouted, "no, no that’s too much". Eventually the flash went off, and we were released.

I returned home with an upset stomach from the veggie burgers, a bursting bladder from the ‘kiddy cocktails’ and some of the world’s most depressing songs stuck in my head. Was it worth £125? I think you know the answer. It went ‘tits up’ and as I look at the tacky poster of the Ball which reads, ‘still the best’, I can only break into a sad but sinister smile, and whisper, "you must be fucking joking. "