Oxford students are a generally quite impassioned lot. The number of groups and individuals who devote their time to protesting all manner of inequality, inadequacy and moral ambiguity reflect a populace with a genuine emotional involvement in truly important issues.
However, nothing quite gets the average Oxonian into a lather of passionate discontent than the closure of a mediocre to poor nightclub. Bar Risa was, to all intents and purposes a terrible, terrible place. Frequently understaffed, poorly ventilated, badly DJ’d and beholden of an aura of intangible squalor. Yet the sheer glut of mournful Facebook statuses that appeared this week in response to the place’s demise seemed to suggest Oxford had suffered the loss of some halcyon institution, some gilded palace of grandiose pleasure. Responses ranged from the heartfelt ‘There will always be a Risa-shaped hole in my heart’ to the despairing ‘Why does the world have to be so cruel?’, but all were surely greeted with a sympathetic, tacit agreement; a reaction from an objective viewpoint that would seem outright perplexing – it really was a terrible place.
It’s clearly a relative matter. Oxford can hardly boast an enviable line up of essential nights out. No one in Manchester is smarting that they can’t get down to Tuesday nights at Escape. Brightonians don’t kick themselves when they miss out on tickets for Po Na Na. Some Oxford students even forgo the whole scene, shelling out a small fortune to high-tail it off to the capital’s more exotic fare – offering needless extravagances like ‘good mixing’, ‘ample floor-space’ and ‘celebrity guestlists’ – who needs Heat alumni when you’ve got double vodka Red Bulls at £2 a caffeinated pop?
“We know the clubs in Oxford will let us down. But we still stick by them”
That latter point was made null and void this term with Friday night punters facing an exorbitant 50% hike in the price of Risa’s signature tipple. Perhaps we should have seen this as the first sign of cracks appearing in the Jongleurs dream. It is an oddly British trait to be fully aware of something’s woeful inadequacy and still be shocked when it all goes tits up.
It goes hand in hand with the way everyone approached Risa – that charmingly obstinate belief that despite all the evidence to the contrary the outcome would be exceptional. The illogical mantra of ‘yeah it’s crap, but it knows it’s crap, which makes it great’ accompanied all who ventured to Risa on a Friday night, and before that to the hallowed halls of Filth – Filth, a club that offered such unique delights as deceased pigeons falling from the rafters onto paying patrons.
Every time the World Cup rolls around, we know England will be a huge let down and yet we still fervently support them, just as every Friday, we know the club nights in Oxford will let us down. Just the same we stick by them, to the bitter end. Through the heinous double-bill of ‘Summer of ’69’ and ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’, through the misguided James Brown mash-ups and onward and downwards with headstrong love and selfloathing in equal parts. If that isn’t a creed you stand by, then you’re probably the sensible type who stays in the pub.
Jongleurs’s statement explained that ‘the economics are such that long term viability cannot be assured.’ A foolish individual would suggest that perhaps if they increased their number of staff, swapped their laughable downstairs dance-floor with another bar, lovingly stocked with cheap and cheerful energy drinks and alcohol, hired even a semi-professional DJ and gave their air conditioning a thorough seeing to, they
would dramatically improve their ‘long term economic viability.’ But that would undeniably miss the point – we loved that it was terrible.
We revel in cynicism; self-deprecation is inherent in all of us and unquestionably extends to the things we hold dear, not least the places we visit of an inebriated evening. Just because something is blatantly awful doesn’t mean it can’t give us that warm, fuzzy feeling. Now it could be argued that that warm, fuzzy feeling came from the large volume of low-grade vodka circulating our systems, but ever since that crushing closure announcement, the rose-tinted glasses have been firmly affixed.
