There’s nothing sweet about being only 17 at uni

So, it’s been almost two months since St Andrews was once again flooded with a barrage of students, amongst them bright-eyed freshers totally ready to commit to their new education and absolutely not go out and get completely wasted every single night.

But if I’m being honest, a million 18th birthdays later and I’m starting to wonder exactly why I’m here. To study? That’s irrelevant to this article. To party? Well I love a good party just like anyone else, and Freshers and Raisin Weekend were fun as hell, plus anything else I’ve been to.

I’m used to being the only responsive one

Oh nice, you’re having an 18th birthday party? Great! Wait…you’re going to the Lizard/The Vic? Well…That’s great, yeah, totally great, have fun.

Am I coming? Nah, I think I’ll pass. Why? (Here we go.)

I’m 17.

The fateful date of birth – feel free to wish me happy birthday, or alternatively laugh at my age

Cue the sympathetic looks, cue the “why didn’t you take a gap year” questions, cue the “when’s your birthday” and the sharp intakes of breath when I make the awful mistake of admitting it’s February. But hey, I make people feel old. Surely that gives me power?

In fact it just makes me feel a little bit crap. How can I possibly hold on to any sliver of dignity and power when I’m surrounded by people who are not only smarter and more accomplished, but also older? I’m a child, for God’s sake! Why am I here?! Being a dancing queen is not fun if you feel completely inferior to every other dancer on the floor.

So yeah, genuine baby over here. But hey, maybe being 17 isn’t such a bad thing in the long run. I mean people are sometimes in awe because they figure out I got into university when I was 16. People look after me because they think I’m young and innocent, which isn’t all bad. At least I can watch rated 16 films, huh?

I may be holding a drink here, but it’s certainly not mine (Credit to Hannah Wyles Photography)

Nope, nope, I’m living a lie. Being 17 is crap, it is the worst age in the world. I can do fuck all.

I can’t go anywhere my friends want to go after 9 o’clock because I won’t get in, which makes me feel bad because I’m holding them back and they feel bad for suggesting it in the first place or leaving me alone.

To use the Abba metaphor I’ve got going on, I am never looking out for a place to go because chances are, I will not get in. I can’t even get a nice drink with friends because I have to buy cola or similar which makes me look like a baby surrounded by all my far older friends drinking their craft beer or cider or cocktails etc etc.

Even bartenders look at me with pity in their eyes.

Look, I know as much as anyone, probably even more than most, that you do not have to drink to have a good time, and I appreciate that, I do. But sometimes it’s a little isolating when all your friends are getting steadily more and more shit-faced and you have to look after them instead of stumbling around giggling at something so inconsequential it wouldn’t even merit a mention in real life.

Don’t have a drink to hold? Clutch onto your friends instead (Credit to Luce Photography)

However, being this young has given me an appreciation for the little things in life, such as being able to hold yourself up on the dance-floor and not spewing everywhere in the middle of the street. And I’m sure when I turn 18, buying a drink for the first time will give me the exact same thrill it gave everyone else when they first did it.

It’ll just be really late.

So until that fateful moment, for now I will just have to deal with being the eponymous Dancing Queen, knowing that I can dance and jive and have the time of my life, and do it sober and slightly less uncoordinated than my elder peers. Look out for me on the dance-floor everyone.

Not at the Lizard though. For obvious reasons.

Who needs alcohol?