St Andrews clubbing style: from lewd to prude
As a typical Edinburgh girl, I’m used to frequenting such classy spots, for those who know them, as Cav (real name Lava Ignite) and City night clubs, in outfits that […]
As a typical Edinburgh girl, I’m used to frequenting such classy spots, for those who know them, as Cav (real name Lava Ignite) and City night clubs, in outfits that definitely do not conform to the rules of picking either your legs, chest or stomach to be on show.
That’s not to say that I dressed like Snooki or one of the other half-naked cheesy wotsits from Jersey Shore, but I know that if my Dad had his way I would be wearing a few extra layers, otherwise known as a burlap sack. So my first year of Uni in St Andrews was pretty much spent figuring out what the hell to wear on an average night out here.
I quickly discovered that you are more likely to get a compliment when wearing whatever humiliating themed costume one of the sports societies has made you go out in, than if you’re wearing a lace leotard with a neon pink bra underneath (just to be clear I would never wear that anywhere).
Maybe it’s the influence of our classy and conservative Royal Alumni that makes St Andrews going-out style different to any other place. Or maybe it’s just that no matter where you are in St Andrews there is always a short walk (or stumble, depending what time of night it is) to the next source of alcohol in that disgusting Scottish weather. As a resident of New Hall last year the thought of making my way in the freezing cold to the Union in a bodycon dress didn’t even bear thinking about.
Despite the mentally scarring things I have seen in St Andrews’ infamous ‘club’ the Lizard, things which make outfit-concerns the least of your worries, I still wouldn’t walk in there without tights under my bandage skirt. Even the DJ knows that’s a huge faux pas. Maybe that’s just for my own safety though, particularly on a Wednesday when you don’t know what state the rugby and football boys will be in and the dance floor is so packed your really don’t know whose hands are whose. I’m usually pretty thankful that I’m not wearing one of my favourite dresses when some boy in chino’s and a tweed jackets spits half his strawpedo attempt all over me.
After a year and bit of practice I have decided on a few rules: If I’m wearing a dress or skirt I always wear tights. Heels are optional depending on the occasion. And to dress up a pair of skinny jeans I wear a boyfriend blazer and skyscraper heels.
As you can imagine, my mum was delighted when I explained to her what my friends and I now wear on nights out – I even let her see a few of my facebook photos. What my parents didn’t quite realise is that my explanation of this recent style revelation was really justification for why my bank statements now consist of payments to Topshop, Urban Outfitters and ASOS, not on food.
There is just one problem now, what happens when I go home to Edinburgh?
Well, St Andrews has turned me into the group mother (some might even say grandmother). My friends no longer even ask what I think of their bralette and leather hotpants combination after the time I asked the taxi driver to turn around because I was sure that in a drunken state one of them had forgotten to put a dress on over her underwear.
Written by Kirsten Nimmo, standout writer