Patrick Leigh-Pemberton: An Ode to St Andrews Nightlife

It is a universally acknowledged truth that St Andrews does not offer the richest nightlife, unless you call dancing in a crush of bodies you wouldn’t normally spend time with whilst unable to make conversation because of ridiculously loud ‘choons’, nightlife. The week is pretty dead, bar the occasional supper party that gets a bit out of hand and you end up in the union until ‘shock horror’ two in the morning. Or there is that random house party, which might last until three, at which point you feel like you have beaten the system and so go to bed thinking, ‘that is quite enough rebellion for one evening’. I like to think that this is a good thing, and that it is what guarantees us, as a bunch of able students, the ability to have enough time each day to do some work. Which is nice.

But then, there comes the weekend. And this is where we do it so well. We have committees in order to throw parties. These committees can have up to fifty people on them or on their attached subcommittees. This takes partying to a new level. And we have even given this new level a new name. In St Andrews, we weekend party so well that we have balls. And these balls rock.

Well, some of them do. A lot of them give to charity. This reduces our moral hangover. But, I wonder, why do we call them balls? Do we do this because of our reputation as an incredibly classy university, or do we have that reputation because we throw balls? Do we all view ourselves as aristocrats in the dying age of European decadence, tripping from ball to ball in our carriages, wearing dated clothes, and chatting up dated billionaires? Or is the name just a cunning way of removing our money from our wallets? These things are not important, as the only thing that matters is that these parties are fun, or if they are not, that there is sufficient provision of alcohol so you don’t have to remember them.

Where is the anger? What is the point of this article? You haven’t offended anyone yet! my regular readers cry. To them I say: fashion shows. They cost a terrifying amount of money, and yes, they all do a brilliant job for charity, but what good are they in themselves? You turn up, having spent the equivalent of Greece’s weekly GDP, for which you get a couple of drinks. And a table. Then you sit there, as people who walk around St Andrews every day, walk around for a bit on stage. And you watch; and for some strange reason people around you begin to woop. And then, the same walking people appear, but this time, they have forgotten to put anything other than their underwear on. And people woop some more.

This is the problem: fashion shows in the real world are about the clothes, yet in St Andrews, they appear to be about the bodies. I would at this point also point out another universally acknowledged truth that in matters of beauty, imagination is always more flattering than reality. So, unless you make a trip to the well-stocked, well-priced bar, what is it that you get from these events for your money (or limb, or house, or whatever you used to pay for the ticket)? Disappointment. So, when ticket sales come around, and your friends start disturbing your games of World of Warcraft with messages about getting a table together, dont walk, run away.