One of the key features of the three years I spent at Southampton University was that it is a self-contained period of haze in the memory banks, whereby even the rememberance of it is enough to slur the words and start the giggle loop running. However, even in the rarified atmosphere of a 24/7 rizz-razz-rise circuit, there was room for red letter days. Times and events that stand out from the rest, things at the time to be looked forward to with eagerness and remembered now with winsome fondness.
Stoneham would put on an annual fireworks extravaganza, with an expensive and memorable display and band/disco/booze entertainment. Being elevated to the peerage in my first term (actually being elected Social Secretary which I held on to for the following year), I had the honour of being responsible for this event. I say responsible, that is the technical term for it, although I took it as a supervisory-in-absence role. Having said that, I am not prepared to confirm or deny whether I skived off the manual grunt work of setting up the stage and such like and got bombed off my rocker at the Dorchester all afternoon. No, the manual work was very much for willing volunteers and the rest of the JCR committee, it was my unfortunate fate to take the plaudits when it all went swimmingly.
Before you judge me too harshly though, let me just say this, there are not many heros like me in the world who at a later Stoneham event not only stayed sober till midnight (mainly due to the equivalent of a court martial from the ratbags on the JCR), but rescued hundreds of delightful wenches who could not pee due to the blocking of all the ladies toilets. Oh the joy of unblocking three loos worth of used tampons, bog roll and errata. Thanks girls, seriously, a real highlight for me that was. Particular thanks as well to Dave the bouncer who sought me out to deal with it.
Of course, notwithstanding the various events at ours and the other halls, there were the Balls. There's an art to going to a ball, with the bars open until 5am, you're always going to struggle to make it to dawn if you go at it hell for leather from 9pm. Having said that, we did alright! Oh for the days when we were young and lithe enough to slip into a Tux and not have to worry about having put a few pounds on since it was last worn, and the days when every girl looked a million dollars in their ball gowns.
It was live soft porn from start to finish. Fry up in full regalia at Big Georges to round things off and a stroll in the gathering light back home, what could be finer?
It would take far too much time to talk about everything that happened at the balls, and perhaps some selected highlights might yet form part of the Orange Blog's trip down memory lane, but potted memories include forsaking Big Georges for a slab of stilton bought from the garage and crackers at the girlfriends, chasing tail in every bar and dancefloor area of one ball, out of ordergate, tit in a white tux falling in mud before even getting in the ball and swearing loudly at Lohan for organising a truly awful graduation ball (Danii Mingoue still owes me more than the 2 songs she performed and I'll have my pay one day). Special mention here for the 95 grad ball at Reading uni and the wibbly wobbly lurch for the last coach home from a damp and cold field in the middle of nowhere.
Such a an amusing batch of memories, but to be fair, to stand out from the crowd in those particular three years, it had to be pretty damn special. With most of my friends now married and their happy days bagged and packed, there are few occasions to match the Uni red letter days. I miss them, and I miss fitting into a Tux by default rather than hard work!
P.S. The Dorchester did fantastic ham, egg and chips.
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