Elle Savage: Real World St Andrews

Chapter 1: The name of the game is survive.

We’ve all been out on the town early in St Andrews. On Market Street, there are townsfolk shopping around, students running to their tutorials that started ten minutes ago, and a small girl dressed in full cashmere subtly puking into a mug as she strolls down the cobblestoned streets. If you missed that last part, it’s because she’s a fucking pro and would never bring attention to herself puking on the street. That’s why she has the mug. If you happen to see this cashmere creature on her morning “hummus hunt”, then you’ve already met my first flatmate.

I understand that if we were playing a word association game, the previous image may not invoke feelings of maturity or adulthood. If there were an inspirational poster for “Responsibility”, we would not be pictured. That being said, we are considered valued customers at some of the most respectable establishments throughout town. The Lizard Lounge, a swanky up-and-coming discothèque (for those not in-the-know) is a standard watering-hole for much of our house, where the famed DJ Tranny is known to shout-out to not only one of the housemates, but to the house itself.

When we’re there, one of the more…enthusiastic…flatmates tends to climb to walls, literally. She is known for her “booty pop”, which, though short-lived due to vigilant bouncers, is always a hit with the locals. Her comments on the walk home often include one-liners such as “he tasted like Aberdeen” or, when attempting to console a friend who recently felt the pain of rejection, “I mean, I tried to make out with you. That means you’re hot. Actually, wait, never mind. That means nothing.”
She not only has the best hookup record in the house (almost three quarters), but is also topping the Kill Count Chart.

What is the Kill Count Chart you ask?

Chapter Two: Kill Count Chart

Last night, a “night guest” was leaving the house and stopped in the kitchen for the awkward sea of introductions, innuendos, and heartfelt goodbyes. On his way out, he rudely inquired about the frequency of visitors his host regularly entertained. We responded in unison that there was no way of knowing, it’s not like we have a tally for that sort of thing.

This was a lie. As he left, skipping off in uncertainty that accompanies any one-nighter, probably trying to calculate just how necessary a trip to the Wednesday free clinic would be, we pulled out the Kill Count Chart.

To the untrained eye, the KCC is just a numerical list with stars next to it. As explained to parents, every time a member of the house does a “house chore” they get a star. To those rare individuals we would actually like to pursue… well, we have yet to make it to that stage. But within the house, it is known that for each and every hookup, you receive a star, regardless of age, gender, or amount of shame you bring to your family in doing so.

Onlookers have deemed the chart to be demeaning, grotesque, and a gross exaggeration of a typical university student’s sexuality. To us in the house, the chart represents the pillars of honesty that our house is built upon. At least, this is how we justify it to ourselves, allowing us to turn a sloppy night out into a shameless, next morning bonding session of stories and star-gazing.

If at any time you want to see the flat in action, I would love to recommend going out to St Andrews’ elegant balls or parties, but frankly we probably won’t be there. One flatmate was kicked out of Opening Ball last year, as well as Welly Ball. If you’re going to Dont Walk, we won’t be strutting on the runway (we were all rejected and told to try out for Cant Walk). Despite this, we’re not an elusive bunch. Just go to Sinners’ Sport, where you’ll find one flatmate taking out her weave at the bar and holding it in one hand as she drinks a triple rum and coke from the other. According to her, it’s “chic”. Who knew?