It's Murder on the Dancefloor!

Why are men at 601 so evil?

Everyone has their complaints about St Andrews nightlife — it’s underwhelming to say the least. At a certain point we all must accept a part of the blame. Yet, I shall not be accepting blame, but rather placing it. Placing it on a demographic that I think gets away with too much on nights out. That is the rowdy lads lads lads. And this is not a proclamation against all men attending the 601 — however, if you read this article, chortle along and think to yourself, “He did nothing wrong — Free my boy!”, then, I hate to tell you this, but you are the problem. 

The concept of a group of loud, boisterous, intoxicated men is no stranger to a night out. Their financial contributions have certainly saved many a small pub from going out of business, and their sense of community and camaraderie is mildly impressive. However, operating in the confines of 601 is not akin to the quaint pub, where it's enough to stand and soak in the atmosphere. The crowd is not static, it’s huddled together in clusters of small groups of people, dancing.

If you’re not dancing, your beanstalk body becomes a bollard. There are very few who possess the stature to go against these giants, BFG or Goliath. Thus, it is imperative that these lads use their height for good. Why are you pushing against anyone shorter than you? You already know you’re going to win, your derrière awkwardly pushing against their back, making both of you unnecessarily uncomfortable. Don’t just stand there, my pal, looking disgruntled, make space! It is a near talent how these bored-looking boys end up in the middle of the crowd when they don’t move at all, checking their phones every now and then. Adding to this point, the club is no place to reply to your daily correspondence. Under no circumstance should I turn my head while dancing and see that I’m featured in the background of some random man’s Snapchat. Are you worried you’re going to lose your streaks? Missing your nightly chat with MyAI? If the event is not fun, I implore you to leave. It’s torturing both of us –– you looking disappointedly around the venue, and me watching your unamused glances, as I bump into you repeatedly because some insanely long chain of people are rushing to find a friend they left behind twenty minutes ago. 

Furthermore, in the excitement of going out, the pre-drinking and the getting ready of it all, I ask that we do not miss one vital step: deodorant. The miasma of foul stench wafting ahead of your arrival is not the first impression you want to make. Everyone sweats inside the packed venue, but I fear that some of these lads are showing up pre-stinky — a stink that’s built into the outfit somehow. I don’t want my Bop to smell like a middle school disco, and I know I’m not alone in this. Many other party-goers are nostril-level with your putrid pits and the crowd pushes them toward the source of your mysterious odour. Let’s avoid this embarrassing encounter by putting some front-line defence down. 

I am speaking from a place of party concern. If all groups cannot learn to coexist harmoniously on the dance floor, there will never be peace in 601. This opinion has been steadily brewing in my mind every time I go out to the Union and have a weird interaction with a devious partygoer. As I stood in 601 on ABBA night, being pushed around by much larger entities than myself while those authentically Swedish performers gave it their all, it hit me! Literally. Someone propelled their empty cup at my head, I assume with the intention of it landing at the bar. From this act, it became clear to me that something about the dimness of the room, the blast of the bass, and the cramp of the crowd incites something in these partygoers where all understanding of etiquette or decorum goes out the window. Ultimately, everyone is entitled to having a fun night out… but not at the expense of other people’s comfort, sense of smell, and safety.

Illustration by Magdalena Yiacoumi