Having begged the Salvator for a press pass to DRA Ball, I was denied, apparently due to ‘obscene levels of inebriation at previous engagements’. But, weirdly, their initial reviewer called in with a mysterious illness on the day of the ball. I was their only option.
However, I didn’t have a ticket. I didn’t even have a dress. But goddammit, Cinderella was going to that mother-fucking ball. I colored a small strip of paper with black Sharpie non-brand permanent marker as I made my way to lower-college lawn and stuck it around my wrist with a wad of flavourless chewing gum. I stole a dress, tights, and heels from an unconscious fresher outside the Lizard and left 20 pounds in her hand as a deposit. Smudging my makeup and messing up my hair, I stumbled drunkenly past the bouncers, flashing my ‘wristband’.
I was in.
The rest of the night was a blur of drinks bought for me by rich first years, cover songs, and coupons for free shit that, had I paid 25 quid for the ball, I would have probably been grateful for. The tent was, I don’t know, big. And there were gambling tables. And fancy sofas. Hell knows what the theme was, I was too busy enjoying a free Blackhorn to notice. It was pretty neat, absolutely worth it for the price, which obviously, in my case, was literally nothing.
But undoubtedly the best part of the night was easily the fact that the women’s restrooms were real! That’s right folks! They were actual bathrooms, with actual stalls, some of which even had actual toilet paper. Amazing. Literally amazing. The ball’s in your court, Christmas Ball 2016.