Hunting for witches

We’ve all seen by now that the BBC news picked up the story of our very own St Andrews Tories burning an effigy of Barack Obama.  There’s been a lot of tutting and mud slinging and everybody seems suddenly unanimous in their disapprobation of a tradition that is performed every year, and no-one ever seemed to notice before that it was, well, a bit weird. Perhaps because in context, people all over the country tend to be doing something very similar, as the effigy burning is part of the St Andrews Tories’ celebration of Bonfire Night, and the politician they burn is their way of updating the age old tradition of burning a Guy.

The thing that troubles me, is not the fact that people have tried to interpret this as some racist action about Obama being black (although that is ridiculous, and a racist assumption in itself, if we make everything about Obama come back to him being black how can he ever be judged as a politician in his own right?). Not that Labour MPs who are supposed to be minding their constituency have used the stunt as a vehicle for some pathetic student Tory bashing instead of taking on the Coalition policies set by Tories their own age. Not that they have made this about burning an effigy of the US President as some act of symbolic national hatred; but the fact that the only reason the intelligent people at this university have ever thought to scrutinise the tradition is because someone recognised this act of astonishingly ill-thought out political incorrectness by a group of aspiring young politicians was newsworthy. No-one made this fuss when they burned Gordon Brown or Nelson Mandela, and the fact is, if they are allowed to burn an effigy of a politician they disagree with, then surely there are no holds barred on who that politician is; Obama, Tony Blair or Nick Griffin.  Maybe it’s worth thinking what the national press would make of some of the other things that go on here, rather than villifying what was ultimately just a stupid act done without malice, even if sadly also without thinking. The reaction to this has been the worst sort of self protective, alarmist bandwagon riding I have seen for a while.

The price of a good education.

 Over the past three days I have received in my Saintmail box two press releases, one from our esteemed Principal Dr Louise Richardson and one from the heads of our Student Association. It appears that neither body felt sufficiently about the issues at hand to even proof-read these emails. The supposedly heartfelt words of both epistles could not have been presented with more horrible irony than the slapdash font errors they were both riddled with. Evidence not only of the respect our figureheads and representatives have for us, but also the rigorous standards prospective students can expect from their now extortionately expensive education. I love my university. It saddens me that our Principal has effectively just thrown it to the dogs. Why has no-one had the insight to recognise that before the introduction of top-up fees in 2006 St Andrews did not even make it into the top ten institutions in the UK, let alone having any impact in the world rankings. All entries in the Guardian Good University Guide from the early noughties show a top ten dominated by Oxbridge and London institutions. This remained the case even after the Scottish legislation was passed allowing EU students to attend St Andrews for free. It was not until top-up fees made Scottish universities cheaper and more attractive for bright, high quality RUK graduates that St Andrews or indeed any Scottish institution penetrated the top ten. Easy to forget whilst we sit comfortably this year ranked at number 3, I know, but not irrelevant to this particular discussion. RUK students are responsible for much of the culture and reputation of this university. Not all of it, but enough for it to be stupid to ignore. We have a library described on The Student Room as bad enough to be a reason not to come. Although it is being renovated, the programme of renovations mysteriously had to be reduced because of “budget deficiencies”, shortly after our humble Principal spent nearly £4m converting the beautiful Art History building, in which Prince William himself attended lectures, into her own personal residence. A residence given up by previous Principal Dr Brian Lang in 2001 because he felt it was “inappropriately large and grand”. “We are not a wealthy institution” just became harder to stomach, didn’t it? If you want to read more, The Scotsman deemed it sufficiently newsworthy to write the following articles, although when I searched the Tribe and the Saint I was unable to find any archived material even mentioning either of these, surely significant events.

 http://news.scotsman.com/news/St-Andrews-University-principal39s-4.6319368.jp

 http://thescotsman.scotsman.com/scotland/Q-Which-Scottish-university-shelved.6342803.jp

This lack of scrutiny is indicative of all of our attitudes. We must sit up and take note of what is happening to this institution. The pop-up shop which was used so vibrantly by various university societies last year has been converted into a 600th anniversary souvenir shop, a function that surely was already performed by BESS? That space undoubtedly could have been utilised in a way that would serve its student population better, but were we even asked? No. The Association sadly lost the battle against the dreadful HMO policy brought in this year, a policy that will reinforce the already significant obstacles presented to prospective students without large family incomes to spend on housing. But what about the bursaries, I hear you cry, surely the bursaries will help entice poorer RUK students into studying in our lovely seaside town? The only significant bursaries created are for Scottish domiciled students. Students who will not have to pay fees. The living cost bursaries for RUK students are only available to those who are eligible for grants from the government anyway, and the clever wording of the press release disguises the fact that they are only topping up what the government will already give them. There is no help for those middle class background students with siblings at university whose parents cannot afford to pay £400/month upwards just in accommodation costs. They will just apply somewhere else. And that is the sorry state of affairs, a St Andrews education just ceased to be an attractive proposition for most of the population due to the ridiculous arrogance of our establishment.

This must not be the end of the discussion on fees.

Heavily involved in the clique.

Just because we're in Scotland, doesn't mean we have to get all Macbeth about power.

This is an accusation that was levelled at me when I couldn’t understand why an acquaintance of mine transferred from St Andrews to the University of Dundee.

‘You wouldn’t understand, you’re heavily involved in the clique.’

I still did not understand. Moreover it brought to mind a passage from Orwell’s The Road to Wigan Pier.

‘A thousand influences constantly press a working-class man down into a passive role. He does not act, he is acted upon. He feels himself the slave of mysterious authority and has a firm conviction that ‘they’ will never allow him to do this, that, and the other. Once when I was hop-picking I asked the sweated pickers (they earn something under sixpence an hour) why they did not form a union. I was told immediately that ‘they’ would never allow it. Who were ‘they’? I asked. Nobody seemed to know; but evidently ‘they’ were omnipotent.’

Now this isn’t a class issue. The point of comparison I find striking is this concept of an impenetrable, anonymous ruling class that remains quite unidentifiable. Who exactly forms this clique my friend has accused me of involving myself with?  Rahs? American with membership to the Old Course Spa rahs? Or Great Outdoors loving tweed wearing rahs? Or maybe Don’t Walk Committee/FS Model with gilet and personal trainer that dance behind the DJ Booth with DJ B-Low in Ma Bells rahs? Or maybe  children of international playboys who don’t discuss their parents’ empires rahs? Or maybe boho mummy and daddy bought me a pony but I just LOVE dubstep and the theatre rahs? Or maybe it’s those people that turn up in your tutorials who seem to be on every committee in existence and run the student union? Or maybe it’s those sporty folk who all know each other and ransack the town every Wednesday? Or maybe it’s those hipsters that stop talking and stare at you when you walk into Taste? Or maybe the medics – they’re like a cult by themselves - sprawled all over the ground floor of the library talking anatomy? Or maybe the library crew, those cronies who are always there and eat and watch iplayer in that drab yellow building rather than part company and go to their own homes for once? Or maybe those postgrads who lurk outside the bop and lead unwitting freshers to house parties in bits of St Andrews that don’t seem to exist during the day time? Or maybe those people who only exist in Aikmans and turn to dust the moment they step outside?

St Andrews is full of cliques, full of small ponds for those who want to to swim about in it acting like big fish. This is not unusual, this is the world; this is human nature. Just look at the Bilderberg group: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bilderberg_Group

We happen to live in a town where these things are more visible and thus, actually, more easily held accountable. And if there’s no pond for you in existence already, you can readily enough make your own, should you so wish. The only thing holding you back is this imaginary ‘they’, this passive acceptance of a hierarchy that ultimately doesn’t really exist; in class, in friendships, in jobs, in all types of social interaction. It’s a cop out to resign responsibility for your social failure to an unidentified group of shadows; the only way to find your niche is to look for it, and if it doesn’t exist, take the initiative to carve yourself a new one.

That’s the best advice I can give to this September’s freshers. Whether or not the St Andrews experience is familiar to you, or takes you utterly outside of your comfort zone, don’t be intimidated. Come, see, conquer.

Notes to self – a cold coffee quandary.

Your frappuccino habit is both fattening and expensive.

 

You don’t want to be thin, you want to be healthy. You don’t want to be rich, you want to be valuable. You don’t want to be powerful, you want to have influence. You don’t want to live forever, you want to make an impression. You don’t want to be beautiful, you want to be attractive. You don’t want to be desired, you want to be loved. You are not a commodity, so don’t treat yourself like one. You are not a checklist, you don’t want to tick the boxes. You are an individual and you just want to be happy. So stop sweating the small stuff.

It’s better to be controversial and have some people dislike you, than to lose your integrity and not try to make a difference.

You don’t love your friends for their perfection. You love them for their flaws.

If it makes you happy, have the fucking frappuccinos.

If you want a stylish diversion…

Check out this fab video on Vogue TV, Karl Lagerfeld has made a film for Chanel with ballet dancer Emma Chadwick, and it is a seamless blend of quirky and classy. Think MGMT meets a Regents Park production of a Midsummer Nights Dream, starring the Sugar Plum Fairy.

http://www.vogue.co.uk/video/voguetv/player.aspx/exclusives/video,10381/

No, but seriously though kids…

Since my earlier post 21st century chivalry has obviously raised a few eyebrows and prompted one vigilante maverick to boldly leave an anonymous derogatory comment describing me as ‘an awful,vulgar person’, it seems like a good idea to go more into depth about the philosophy behind it. Although it was always intended first and foremost to be amusing, there are serious reasons why actually what I have asserted is important; particularly some of the more outrageous points.

For example ‘you’re paying for dinner, I paid to get my pubes waxed off’, is about the striking dichotomy between how a modern man will expect a girl to go dutch, but also expect her to keep a porn star image which is not cohesive with the same feminist principles. Why are we still pandering to male fantasies and pretending that we are being treated equally? This is the same issue that I refer to with ‘blowjobs are a privilege, not a right’. Channel 4 did an excellent documentary ‘The Sex Education Show versus Pornography’ which calls attention to how demands on sexual permissiveness from young girls have increased as pornography has become more mainstream, without any increase in the awareness of the needs of female sexuality. Women are expected and increasingly expect themselves to moan unrealistically, orgasm vaginally rather than with their clitorises, love giving head and even having anal sex, just like the pornstars on screen. Hence ‘if a girl is orgasming in 2 seconds she is probably screaming from pain instead of pleasure’ is about the lack of ownership of their own bodies many women still experience in the bedroom due to social conditioning that women are the object, rather than the subject in sexual negotiations. Don’t get me wrong, do what you want in the bedroom. So long as it is what you want.

Why is addressing these issues vulgar? Surely it is just honest, and even responsible to open a forum for women to vent their romantic and sexual frustrations in a post modern world; since the feminist battle was supposedly won in the 60s it’s as if we are just not allowed to have opinions about sexual politics anymore, because it is embarrassing, and ‘vulgar’. Maybe it’s time we all grew up.

In this vein, I would also like to mention the excellent work being done by the girls organising Slutwalk London, a brave response to some irresponsible Canadian policeman who advised schoolgirls if they didn’t want to get raped they shouldn’t dress like ‘sluts’. A remark that is both offensive and irresponsible on every level. The Slutwalk is a protest being held in Trafalgar Square at 1pm on the 11th June against the objectification and categorisation of women and in support of victims of sexual assault. I might even burn my bra…

21st century chivalry.

Modern romance...

Gentlemen of St Andrews, a few things to consider:

- if a girl has clearly made an effort with her appearance, it is polite to compliment her on it.

- you’re paying for dinner. I paid to get all my pubes waxed off.

- flowers come from a florist. Never tesco.

- a date is planned, not ‘I don’t know, what do you want to do?’, if you want to see a girl that badly you should plan the experience you want to share with her; that means being thoughtful not just throwing cash at the situation.

- a real man doesn’t say I love you if he doesn’t mean it.

- a real man likes a real woman, not one made from silicone with pneumatic nipples.

- if a girl is orgasming in 2 seconds, she is screaming from pain not pleasure.

- if you want a slender girlfriend, you have to accept sometimes she will misjudge the effect of dieting on her alcohol limit and you will understand that it is acceptable that she is totally plastered/crying/being needy/getting mascara on your shirt. She will make up for it tomorrow.

- just coz a girl kissed you one time does not mean she wants to be your girlfriend, and it is downright rude to make this assumption.

- if you don’t intend to call, don’t take her number. It’s crueller to give a false impression of interest than it is rude to explain that you’re just not into it.

- if a girl is grumpy, it doesn’t always mean she’s on her period. And if she is, then be nice, it’s a crap time to be female.

- a girl who is honest with you about the fact she wants to see you again, doesn’t wait three days to text back and generally breaks all the normal dating rules, will probably make a nicer, more caring, lower maintenance girlfriend than the enigmatic minx who keeps you tantalisingly on a shoestring. Playing games is about ego warfare, not having genuine interest in the other person.

- if you’re going to cheat on her, break up with her. In this town you always get found out.

- you may think it’s unlikely you’ll meet the love of your life in the lizard, but first impressions can mislead, and an open heart is better than a narrow mind.

- do to others as you would be done by is a mantra that provides a fairly failsafe answer to almost all situations.  

- being alone is preferable to being unhappy.

- every new relationship has its own virginity, whether your lover has a romantic history more akin to Casanova or Mother Theresa they have a right to be seduced, and to behave as they feel is timely.

- blowjobs are a privilege, not a right.

- it’s always less awkward to smile, say hello, and quickly walk past, than to try and hide behind the avocadoes.

Who says romance is dead? It’s just in a process of being redefined…

The Black(tie) Death – A St Andrews Plague

As a girl with an unhealthy interest in all things sartorial, it piques me greatly that proper dress codes are so often ignored at events where they have clearly been specified. It just lets things down for those of us who have made the effort. At the recent KK May Ball (which I thoroughly enjoyed despite some people’s mixed reviews), I was horrified to see that despite having invested in the top price dinner ticket, many of my fellow revellers were wearing dresses of cheap fabric, cut well above the knee. Now, granted, due to the insanity of Scottish licensing laws, this was the first year the ball wasn’t billed as ‘Black tie, no wallet’; but it is still a black tie event…and when paying £95 a ticket I’m afraid a jersey number from h&m just doesn’t cut the mustard. It certainly soured my champagne reception. Don’t misunderstand me, it’s not a price snobbery thing, we are all students, but you can find something appropriate in TK Maxx or a vintage store for less than £30, it is simply a matter of taking sufficient pride in one’s self to Do The Thing Properly. It is doubly saddening as it strikes such a sharp contrast with the many bow-tied dapper young gents in tux and kilts who unfailingly rise to the occasion with gusto and originality.

Women of St  Andrews, take note. I append a guide  for your future reference: (the following is taken from www.dresscodeguide.com where one can find a wealth of information for every occasion and need never be in doubt again.)

The dress code below is traditionally known as ‘Semi-Formal’ and is often known as ‘Black Tie’, however sometimes ‘Semi-Formal’ is used to request suits and dresses (which is traditionally known as ‘Informal‘ dress).If there is any doubt which was intended then this is worth clarrifying.

Evening Gown A long flowing dress.Evening Gowns come in various lengths: Tea which is from mid calf to ankle, Ballerina which is to the ankle, and Full Length which is to the floor.Suitable materials include chiffon, velvet, satin, and silk.

Cocktail Dress A short gown.Also known as a ‘Dancing Costume’ or a ‘Cocktail Gown’.Ranging in length from just above the knee to about two inches above the ankle (Tea length), however the longer length is appropriate to semi-formal wear.Popular materials include silk, satin and chiffon.Less elaborate dresses are most appropriate for semi-formal wear.

Dinner Suit Dressy.

Hat 

Hats are not worn for Semi-Formal evening wear

Coat 

Luxury Coat If weather permits.

Cape A short cloak which just covers the shoulders or extends to the waist.Typically black.Velvet, silk, or satin.

Cloak A loose over garment which covers the wearer and their evening dress from shoulders to ankles, normally fastening at the neck. There are no arms.Wool, cashmere, velvet, satin, silk and fur are all common materials for evening cloaks.Good quality linings and trimmings.

Top 

Camisole Lace. To complement a Ball Skirt.

Sweater Cashmere. To complement a Ball Skirt.

Dressy Top To complement a Ball Skirt.

Bottom 

Ball Skirt Full long skirt as an alternative to a gown. A relatively recent innovation.

Footwear 

Formal Shoes To suit your gown or skirt.

Sandals To suit your gown or skirt.

Accessories 

Jewelry As much as you feel is appropriate.Show off your best.

Dress Code Variants 

Black Tie Optional? If the invitation requests ‘Black Tie Optional’, then this means exactly that.If you feel more comfortable in black tie or wish to convey your respect to your hosts or fellow guests, wear Black Tie. If you prefer not to dress so formally, a dark lounge suit will be sufficient.Ladies also get a free choice of evening wear. Anything from Evening Gown to Cocktail dress would be more than suitable. Dressy separates could also be considered.Obviously some guests will be wearing Black Tie, so all clothing should be of the highest quality.

Creative Black Tie? If the invitation requests ‘Creative Black Tie’, or some other variation on the ‘Black Tie’ code, this generally means that, for him, more modern trousers and dinner jacket is acceptable. Maybe a black shirt, a long tie or some other local neckwear.The key thing is that the suit and dinner jacket should be black and dressy.For her, there’s more creativity with her dress length, or even wear dressy evening separates.Obviously, follow any themes requested in the dress code, but remember this is still intended to be a classy event.

Alternatives

Scottish Dress A White Gown with a tartan sash.Alternatively a long kilted skirt with a jacket.The tarten of the lady or her companion can be used for the skirt or sash, or a ‘district’ tarten approved for general use can be used.

Traditional Dress Traditional dress is always appropriate for semi-formal events.

‘He’s like the dark, but I’d want him.’ – The allure of the bad boy.

When even a badass rocker like Kim Deal is prey to the dark side of love, what hope is there for us fluffier mortals? With Valentine’s day looming on the horizon like a bad smell, it seems an appropriate time to reconsider that age old question; why do smart girls get dumbstruck for a bad boy?

The original 'oh so bad, but oh so good' confusing teen crush.

I think it comes back to the mythical nature of our ideas of romantic perfection, discussed in my earlier post ‘Seek bromance’. On some level, choosing a harder option, making our love life more tempestuous and difficult, has the ability to fool us into thinking we are somehow part of a club that belongs only to those in the throes of a hotblooded passion. Just plain nice somehow doesn’t seem quite so, well, exciting. Why doesn’t anyone explain this to you when you are a teenager, having these formative relationships which scar and set your behavioural patterns for years to come? That the highs and lows of a bad relationship can be as addictive as heroin and sometimes as detrimental, in its all consuming, isolating nature.

The long road home.

Okay so I thought I was having a relatively quiet social patch and would not be recanting further adventures at least until my exams are over, but this little escapade seemed worthy of a post. A few nights ago I went for a quiet catch up drink with the Essex Gash before we began dispersing our separate ways back to university land/real life. As London is en route to Essex for me it made perfect sense to go for a cheeky rifle through the sales with the Father in the afternoon and a spot of lunch with my friend Rizza who happens to work with him; upshot being, a lovely lunch, hefty bag filled with beautiful, marked down, Kurt Geiger shoes and an early arrival with a dead phone battery.

Well at the ripe old age of 21 and a half being sat alone for fifteen odd minutes in the pub early on a Thursday evening is not so intimidating, especially the pub one has frequented since the rather more tender age of fifteen, so I freshened up in the ladies, purchased myself a voddydietcoke and positioned myself so as to see my friends the moment they walked in. It did not occur to me that I had also positioned myself in such a fashion as to allow the entire bar knowledge of my unaccompanied presence. Within two minutes a not so young gentleman who introduced himself as Dav had wandered over enquiring as to the whereabouts of my friends and really started talking a little bit too close to my face. Worse still, he had evidently somewhere learned about the utility of neuro-linguistic programming techniques in picking up women who are not interested in you; unfortunately for him, not only had he not quite mastered this subtle art (peppering your conversation totally at random with incongruous words such as ‘horny’ and ‘boobs’ is hardly going to make any woman fall on your penis) but he was not to know my best friend’s boyfriend used to work for a firm which teaches these techniques to the flirtatiously(or facially) challenged male at extortionate rates, and so I can recognise them fairly easily. No sooner had I asked him if he’d ever read ‘The Game’ (if you don’t know what this is, educate yourself at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Game:_Penetrating_the_Secret_Society_of_Pickup_Artists, good to know, but creeeepyass stuff) than he mumbled that he might have a copy lying around at home somewhere and exited my general vicinity pretty sharpish, which was a relief as my friends were arriving and I didn’t want them to think I had been cultivating the interest of this Dav character.

We had a lovely evening, where I got inappropriately more drunk than everyone else (problem with arriving early) and decided I didn’t want to leave yet when it was time to catch my train; a foolish decision. I decided to get the later train to Gatwick  (they run all night) and just take the hit on the cab fare…After all I might not see the Gash again for a while. I got on the last train into Oxford St and missed my connecting train to Victoria which meant waiting an hour for a night bus, since I was drunk and hadn’t had dinner I thought I might as well grab a maccys while I was waiting. Sadly I never got to eat that chicken legend meal, it was crudely plucked from my hand by a 19 year old dodgy seeming moroccan boy, who accosted me at the bus stop, in a vain attempt to kiss me. Just as well he only went for the maccy’s and not the Kurt Geigers I was still clutching in my other bag, or the night might have taken a turn towards the violent. This boy was extraordinary in his persistence. Not only did he wait around until the night bus arrived, he got on it and sat next to me, then waited a further hour at Victoria for my train to arrive. Highly unnerving. I was very relieved that he didn’t attempt to get on the train with me, and when it finally got to gatwick after my half hour taxi ride home, I was absolutely knackered (though not too knackered to microwave a massive bowl of christmas pudding, badd festive drunken Lucie).

The whole experience compounded my determination to stick to my resolutions 1. Better long term decision making (ie catch your train! charge your phone!!) 2. Drink less 3.As well as kebabs, eat less maccys and christmas pudding.