Roulette Table: How other half live it up!
Jul 2 2006
Wales on Sunday
Sloanes in gowns and toffs in DJs are de rigeur at the Cambridge University Summer Ball. But Welsh student Josh Farrington reveals it's not so far away from a drunken night out back home...
"How's it going everyone?" shouts Alan from the stage, who's performing with The Rakes.
"How's the champagne?"
The crowd roars back happily. The champagne is very good indeed.
When we're young, we're happy with a bouncy castle and some ice cream. As we get older, a night out trawling the happy hours in Cardiff are good enough.
So it comes as something of a surprise to find myself in the rarefied setting of Trinity College, Cambridge, on the night of the First and Third Trinity Boat Club May Ball. Yes, it takes place in June nowadays, but it's still the May Ball - it's just one of those Cambridge things, like Magdalene being pronounced 'maudlin'.
The most famous of all the post-exam May Week events, the Trinity May Ball is reputedly one of the greatest parties on earth - according to those in the know, only bettered by the Rio De Janeiro Carnival and the Oscars in terms of opulence, extravagance, and sheer fun.
Even a year spent living and studying here, amidst the 16th century courts and portraits of Henry VIII haven't quite prepared me for quite how special this will be.
For starters, there are few parties where you feel underdressed in black tie. However, the spiffing gents who have turned out in white tie and tails put the rest of us to shame, not to mention the ladies and their stunning ball gowns.
Feeling sartorially inadequate is not the only worry as we join the security-tight two-hour queue down Trinity Street and through Great Court - there is also the looming threat of rain, which, whilst worrying the girls and their immaculate hairstyles, does give the whole thing a pleasantly Welsh atmosphere.
Inside the ball though, another sort of liquid overcomes worries of rain.
A college punt has been dragged into the beautiful cloisters of Nevile's Court and filled with ice and champagne. And, like a good Welsh storm, the champagne is never-ending, and the perfect accompaniment to the oysters that have been provided for the masses of people who wander slightly dizzily trying to take it all in.
The starry-roofed jazz tent, the raucous cabaret stage, the fountains, the fun fair, the ice rink. And, somewhere at the back, a bouncy castle - proof that parties don't change all that much. Ladies are warned to check the strength of the straps on their ball-gowns, before going for a bounce.
The queues for all the different food stalls - stuffed with Thai, pizza, chocolate fountains, hog roast and burgers, it's like Chippy Alley - are all disappointingly long, but the bars scattered liberally around the Ball are quick to serve, satisfying most of the guests.
The place practically empties though when crowds assemble on the Scholar's Lawn to watch one of the highlights of the night - the firework display. So popular that other balls held on the same night have gaps in their schedule just to gawp at Trinity.
The fireworks are designed by the same company that did the fireworks for the hand-over of Hong Kong to the Chinese, which might give you some idea of the scale of events.
People who failed to get tickets have filled the river with hundreds of punts to get a front row seat, effectively covering the River Cam in a wooden floor, so densely packed that you couldn't fall in between them if you tried.
It is an unbelievable sight.
The Ball continues in an amazing, dream-like haze of dance, drink, and indulgence.
The jazz tent has people jiving from the word go, whilst those needing a respite for their feet find solace watching brilliant improvised comedy acts on the cabaret stage. After getting drunk on this fast-paced atmosphere as much as the champers, we race to another highlight of the night, headlining band The Rakes, who provide us with their brilliant high-energy indie-punk pop tales of nine-to-five jobs and Friday nights spent in Wetherspoon pubs.
On a complete euphoric high, I somewhat unwisely head to the casino to see if my luck can last. I put up a brave front at the ruthless blackjack table, before moving on to the ill-fated roulette table of doom.
Though I feel like James Bond in my dinner jacket, I don't seem to have his winning streak, and my dreams of winning a fortune and swapping South Wales for the South Pacific go unfulfilled, for one more year at least.
After all this excitement, it's a shock to realise just how late or early it is, depending on how you see it, but those still feeling the party buzz know where to head next - Trinity's magnificent Great Hall, for a climactic ceilidh.
Jackets are thrown off with abandon, champagne flutes are recklessly knocked over, and partners are swapped without a second thought, and a good sweaty time is had by all. It's almost as though we're in a club in St Mary Street.
It doesn't matter that we don't know each other and have never done this before; we're still swinging each other round and making very loud, quite worrying whooping noises.
Drenched in sweat, blinking into the dawn light, I grab my final glass of bubbly and a salmon and cream-cheese bagel, and head back to the Scholar's Lawn for the customary Survivor's Photograph, a proud memento of our sterling services to decadence and debauchery.
After this, the dream is over, and we make our way through the quiet and pretty sleeping streets of Cambridge, pausing only to pick up our complimentary copies of the Financial Times (just to check the markets of course), before finally, crashing into bed the way we should have done hours ago.
Wales on Sunday
Sloanes in gowns and toffs in DJs are de rigeur at the Cambridge University Summer Ball. But Welsh student Josh Farrington reveals it's not so far away from a drunken night out back home...
"How's it going everyone?" shouts Alan from the stage, who's performing with The Rakes.
"How's the champagne?"
The crowd roars back happily. The champagne is very good indeed.
When we're young, we're happy with a bouncy castle and some ice cream. As we get older, a night out trawling the happy hours in Cardiff are good enough.
So it comes as something of a surprise to find myself in the rarefied setting of Trinity College, Cambridge, on the night of the First and Third Trinity Boat Club May Ball. Yes, it takes place in June nowadays, but it's still the May Ball - it's just one of those Cambridge things, like Magdalene being pronounced 'maudlin'.
The most famous of all the post-exam May Week events, the Trinity May Ball is reputedly one of the greatest parties on earth - according to those in the know, only bettered by the Rio De Janeiro Carnival and the Oscars in terms of opulence, extravagance, and sheer fun.
Even a year spent living and studying here, amidst the 16th century courts and portraits of Henry VIII haven't quite prepared me for quite how special this will be.
For starters, there are few parties where you feel underdressed in black tie. However, the spiffing gents who have turned out in white tie and tails put the rest of us to shame, not to mention the ladies and their stunning ball gowns.
Feeling sartorially inadequate is not the only worry as we join the security-tight two-hour queue down Trinity Street and through Great Court - there is also the looming threat of rain, which, whilst worrying the girls and their immaculate hairstyles, does give the whole thing a pleasantly Welsh atmosphere.
Inside the ball though, another sort of liquid overcomes worries of rain.
A college punt has been dragged into the beautiful cloisters of Nevile's Court and filled with ice and champagne. And, like a good Welsh storm, the champagne is never-ending, and the perfect accompaniment to the oysters that have been provided for the masses of people who wander slightly dizzily trying to take it all in.
The starry-roofed jazz tent, the raucous cabaret stage, the fountains, the fun fair, the ice rink. And, somewhere at the back, a bouncy castle - proof that parties don't change all that much. Ladies are warned to check the strength of the straps on their ball-gowns, before going for a bounce.
The queues for all the different food stalls - stuffed with Thai, pizza, chocolate fountains, hog roast and burgers, it's like Chippy Alley - are all disappointingly long, but the bars scattered liberally around the Ball are quick to serve, satisfying most of the guests.
The place practically empties though when crowds assemble on the Scholar's Lawn to watch one of the highlights of the night - the firework display. So popular that other balls held on the same night have gaps in their schedule just to gawp at Trinity.
The fireworks are designed by the same company that did the fireworks for the hand-over of Hong Kong to the Chinese, which might give you some idea of the scale of events.
People who failed to get tickets have filled the river with hundreds of punts to get a front row seat, effectively covering the River Cam in a wooden floor, so densely packed that you couldn't fall in between them if you tried.
It is an unbelievable sight.
The Ball continues in an amazing, dream-like haze of dance, drink, and indulgence.
The jazz tent has people jiving from the word go, whilst those needing a respite for their feet find solace watching brilliant improvised comedy acts on the cabaret stage. After getting drunk on this fast-paced atmosphere as much as the champers, we race to another highlight of the night, headlining band The Rakes, who provide us with their brilliant high-energy indie-punk pop tales of nine-to-five jobs and Friday nights spent in Wetherspoon pubs.
On a complete euphoric high, I somewhat unwisely head to the casino to see if my luck can last. I put up a brave front at the ruthless blackjack table, before moving on to the ill-fated roulette table of doom.
Though I feel like James Bond in my dinner jacket, I don't seem to have his winning streak, and my dreams of winning a fortune and swapping South Wales for the South Pacific go unfulfilled, for one more year at least.
After all this excitement, it's a shock to realise just how late or early it is, depending on how you see it, but those still feeling the party buzz know where to head next - Trinity's magnificent Great Hall, for a climactic ceilidh.
Jackets are thrown off with abandon, champagne flutes are recklessly knocked over, and partners are swapped without a second thought, and a good sweaty time is had by all. It's almost as though we're in a club in St Mary Street.
It doesn't matter that we don't know each other and have never done this before; we're still swinging each other round and making very loud, quite worrying whooping noises.
Drenched in sweat, blinking into the dawn light, I grab my final glass of bubbly and a salmon and cream-cheese bagel, and head back to the Scholar's Lawn for the customary Survivor's Photograph, a proud memento of our sterling services to decadence and debauchery.
After this, the dream is over, and we make our way through the quiet and pretty sleeping streets of Cambridge, pausing only to pick up our complimentary copies of the Financial Times (just to check the markets of course), before finally, crashing into bed the way we should have done hours ago.
