India Doyle: Can’t standrews

I am here writing whilst a huge spider sits outside my bedroom. I am effectively trapped and I might never get out again. As my life flashes before my eyes, […]


I am here writing whilst a huge spider sits outside my bedroom. I am effectively trapped and I might never get out again. As my life flashes before my eyes, I realise that I should write a column that means something, and that will stand the test of time. So I’m going to write about something very close to my heart. I’m going to write about being drunk. May ball is just around the corner, so for those of you that are free, I’m writing as a warning about what will inevitably happen to you.

As the first sip of Tesco’s / KK’s finest touches your lips, you will feel instantly relaxed. (Depending on your drink of choice, you may also gag.) The world will not feel any different, but you know that you are going to a great place. This is only re-affirmed as you continue through your first glass, it’s like a brilliant first date: the possibilities are endless. On then, to your second glass: your confidence begins to grow and the synthesised music begins to seem exhilarating. You may want to throw some hands in the air like you just don’t care but you won’t, not yet.

Around this time my face begins to feel flushed, but it isn’t purple yet, and I suspect for different reasons, most people will also decide to pour themselves another glass. By this point what you’re saying becomes less important, you no longer need to justify why you randomly want to talk about eggs; you just do. And nobody is listening because they’re too busy planning ways to steal a helicopter from the KK.

As the liquid in the glass goes down, your excitement increases to the point where you actively begin to move your body in what you think is a dignified manner. This doesn’t necessarily mean dancing; even walking begins to become a problem.

By this point you feel confident enough to take some shots. If only there was someone to tell you that this is a really dumb move. But there isn’t, and even if there was, you’d just push them back to the library. Two shots down, and you decide that you are witty and charming enough to talk to people that you’ve never met before, or don’t know you well enough to not think you’re a freak. This is where the trouble begins.

Between drinks 4 and 10 your words start to jumble, your eyes are glisten and I become officially purple. But it’s great because no-one cares and you spend the next few hours talking incoherent shit to any one that will listen. People begin to make out; the general ambience is one of a zoo. Although in the morning you know you will regret the shots that start to be liberally handed out, right now you know that you are officially living the St Andrews dream. Now you wave your hands in the air because you really don’t care: everyone is funny, (unless they’re a dick, in which case now they’re ‘a piece of shit wanker’ that you’ll probably try and punch, or at least square up to saying ‘calm down mate’ or something manly like that). The music surges, you declare your love for everyone, you look at yourself and truly believe that you’re looking fantastic.

By this point you realise that you can’t stand. And you crawl home, via empire. I miss it already; go forth everyone and enjoy it. I’ll be here, waiting for something to rescue me.