Grad Bawl

The night of Grad Ball should have been one of those nights of debauchery you pretend not to remember, but for me it in fact came to be one I hope never to forget. For all the wrong reasons. Let me give you a run down of exactly how last night went from Grad Ball to Grad Balls in the space of approximately 30 seconds.

By 8.30 pm, after lengthy preparations carried out with near military precision, make up applied with such artistic flair that I resembled something that should be hanging in the Louvre (or in a telephone box with an pay-per-minute number underneath – the wine could have already gone to my head) I was ready to join the gang for pre-drinks before heading out to what Grad Week had all been leading up to. The moment we had all been waiting for. Eventofthecentury, Grad Ball 2012.

But it would appear that Grad Ball and I were not meant to be. Whilst my peers cavorted within like frisky ponies/dogs in heat and attempted to drown themselves in (insert beverage of choice), I was left outside in the cold. Literally. The reason? Apparently I was ‘drunk’ and was trying to ‘smuggle in’ my flatmate and her boyfriend visiting from Sweden (they walked me to the door on their way to the pub)Like some sort of sordid graduation week pirate. I mean, yes I was mildly inebriated, but so was everyone. That is the fucking point is it not? It is Grad. Ball. It is not the library, or an old peoples home, or church. For the love of Louise Richardson, it is GRAD BALL.

My spies on the inside had earlier informed me, via vaguely decipherable drunk text, that a guy had already passed out cold at the bar during the ceilidh. Also, that there were in fact people drunkenly crawling around simultaneously sobbing about leaving university AND trying to pull off the ambitious manoeuvre that is the multi-schweff, none of whom I would ever of course associate myself with (hi Kathryn). I think it safe to conclude that I was freaking Mother Teresa levels of inebriated compared to some people who had already been LET IN and for whom things had already gone a little bit too Charlie Sheen. Nor had I in any way set out with the intention of trying to pull any wool over anyone’s eyes that night – my dress was actually made of chiffon I think, but that’s another story for another day.

I attempted to explain the situation by engaging soon-to-be-top-of-my-hitlist bouncer in negotiations. He was having none of it. I argued. I begged. Stubborn he was, like an ox. Eventually I gave up. I sat, dejected, on a bench on the quad, the tears that fell from my freshly mascara-ed eyes mingling with the rain that poured relentlessly from that accursed Friday night sky. Fuck you, Scottish June.

No but actually, in the end, it was all fine. Not being one to cry over spilled bouncer-blood, I picked up my bruised soul and endeavoured to have a good night nonetheless. My flatmate’s boyfriend (who is the craziest of crazy Swedes) announced his intention to make sure I had THE best night ever. What a gent. He took me straight to the Vic, where he bought me drinks all night and we proceeded to have ridiculous chat with golfers and danced to music on the extra-smelly French end of the cheese scale. I later heard that the musical component of The Ball That Must Not Be Named sadly offered no such cheese for you all to go crackers to? (weeey, see what I did there?)

So, due to the corruption of the system once again, my plans to hit on as many men in kilts as I could find were thwarted. Sigh. I was sad not to be able to be there with my friends, but I had a great night thanks to a great knight (in shining armour) who came to my rescue. Hope you all enjoyed yourselves and congratulations to all my fellow graduates. Hope you guys were all Balls-deep in fun last night. Too far? Whatever. I am the anti-Cinderella.