Despite the fact that week 8 had granted me a healthy dose of cynicism, I nonetheless strapped on my wellys and braced for my night at Kinkell Byre. Greeted by the familiar array of fairy lights and plastic flutes of prosecco, I graciously accepted and sipped my bubbly, all the while weaving my way through copious amounts of faux fur, tartan trews, and rubber rain boots. To nobody’s surprise, Welly Ball greated St Andreans like an old friend: with familiarity, comfortability, and a very keen desire to get you utterly pissed. The latter was not made difficult: the interior of Kinkell featured two bars – one being cash only – and equally as many sober attendees.
Between bouts of dancing a various bar trips, the evening progressed. I invite you to imagine yourself, a bit glassy eyed, standing – swaying ? – in the smoking section, cigar smoke dancing at your nostrils and drinking vessels being crushed beneath your feet. In that damp and frigid cacophony of bodies, draped-over arms, muddy boots, and undone bow ties, you are likely to experience an encounter one of the following:
1. An acquaintance from tutorial
She may be spilling her jagerbomb all over you, but who cares? Her shiny hair and smudged lipstick is absolutely endearing.
2. The St A. Lad
How hard did he go at pres? Don’t worry, he’ll be sure to tell you. No doubt his sunday league all went in for a crate of tennents, hauled them back to halls just to chin them to the tune of Sweet Home Alabama whilst staring up at his one poster (Pulp Fiction).
3. Increasingly Drunk Friend Who’s Gone Through A Breakup
If you let her, she’ll continually buy you shots in exchange for accompaniment to the loo and emotional support when she spots her ex.
4. Probably someone who claims they’re an esquire
He’s worn those wellys on countless hunts, you can’t question it.
In essence, you’re left with two options: fasten your corduroy collar at the neck and boldly whether the elements, or aquaice to the dancefloor.
After a few of bottles and hits from the top 40, the night started to wind down. Students, eager to disaffiliate themselves from their previous transgressions, flocked to the pizza and burger stands outside, sweat glistening on their foreheads from dancing to the DJ’s impressive set. As I carefully made my way outside to the buses, I spied a myriad of sequin dresses littering the hall, with the subsequent iphone-lit visages dotting Kinkell’s stone walls like constallations. In the cohesion of the bus queue (after being elbowed by an anonymous student who was “absolutely buzzing for afters”) I contemplated my night, reaching the conclusion that it was undoubtedly a St Andrews classic that should not be missed.
Though Welly Ball, like many events before it, left me with moderate hiccups and a yearning for cheesy chips, I nevertheless left Kinkell Byre pleasantly surprised by how satisfying the night had been.