Stop Union Propoganda!

We need to resurrect the house party

There is no shame in loving a night out — the excitement of what a night will bring, the stories that will be torn into the next day over a Northpoint brunch. 

This Halloween, I found myself in that very place:  At a table in Northpoint, the St Andrews air heavy with chaos, debriefs, grappling with the events of the night before. Yet, barely anything which came up in that concentrated hour of gossip, with the friend I’d been with the whole time, brought us that post-night-out giggle. Nothing really occurred at that big union event — the same one that people paid up to £100 to gain entry into. 

It felt like any busy union night out. You get pushed, stuck in soul-crushing queues for drink and coat-checks, overstimulated by the crowds, hiding in the smoking area from the claustrophobia of a sweaty 601 with music that is mediocre at best. What then, you may ask, prompted me to summon my tired, hungover friend to brunch for a debrief? Well, of course, it was the pres. Now, granted, it wasn’t your standard run-of-the-mill pres. It more resembled a traditional Halloween house party, one which I’d hosted with my neighbours. One in which we were all getting to know new people, after the initial sober awkwardness has melted away. That’s what a night out is really about. 

It was a party at which my friend, in her brilliant, homemade King Julien headband, would get lost, and the occasional “King Julien” shriek (in her very good impression) would reassure me that she was close. All as I found myself trying not to get my drink stolen by a man in spandex, whom I’d met in the last five minutes and whose name eludes me. Later, I laughed embarrassingly hard at a girl dressed as a pimp who kept handing me fake cash. Then there was the slightly perplexing argument about a previous Saint article I’d written (I remember you — send me that DM, I just want to talk) with someone I’d never met before. I couldn’t run out of ridiculous moments to remember and discuss in-depth with my friend. 

But that’s what it’s all about, right? There comes a point where a night out, wherever it may be in this town (likely the Union), is about being out with your friends, staying with that same group throughout the night while dodging men overt in their complete lack of interest in just chatting. The monotony of a Union night is that much more a reality in a place like this, where clique-ishness often finds us glued to our group, and those whom we run into while out are those we already consider friends.  

The fun of making new friends, however, lends itself best to the environment of a house party, where you’re there to socialise, not shout at your friends over deafening house beats. Don’t get me wrong, I love a club night, especially when it’s my kind of music. But dancing and socialising shouldn’t be classed together as a form of leisure. Sometimes you just want a slightly drunken chat that may blossom into a friendship, or a funny story told to meet more people through mutual friends. 

And as we finished up at Northpoint, I received a call from another dear friend who, thanks to our house party, had quite the story of her own, representing a most unexpected crossover in my St Andrews circle. As my friend and I had our suspicion confirmed, one which we’d speculated about just moments before, we giggled in a way I hadn’t in a long time. I realised how important it was that we bring back the house party, breaking the cycle of the same, old, tired Union night out. What better way to break the ice?

Illustration from Wikimedia Commons