Becoming student journalists has landed us on the blacklist for every secret rave in town and we’ve been desperate for a good night out under the radar. So when we received a message from the President of Oxford’s Hayek Society, a libertarian political club, telling us about an upcoming secret party titled ‘Kinks and Liberty’, we can’t say we weren’t genuinely excited. A few days later, however, we discovered a public Facebook event describing the night as a black tie charity fundraiser event but maintaining there would be an “afterparty at a secret location”. Not quite so secret anymore, but good enough, we thought. We decided to fork out a tenner, and put on our best formal wear for an evening of libertinism with the libertarians. All in the name of investigative journalism.
In the queue to the event, we discover just how vague the ‘sexy black tie’ dress code really was: some are playing it safe with a shirtless tuxedo, others are spicing up their outfits with Anne Summers handcuffs that are somehow so clearly identifiable as a last-minute buy. One guy turns up in full hunting uniform and face paint. Jill shakes hands with an American gentleman who will introduce himself to her with his firm grip just about as many times as we turn to each other and utter the phrase “what the fuck”. Standing there, eyeing up our new ‘friends’ for the evening, we realise that we, in fact, have formed this so-called “queue” and that our fellow attendees might just be as clueless as us.
The venue itself sets a somewhat sterile atmosphere that we find hard to put into words. That’s until we overhear someone telling their friend it looks “like a hospital waiting room”. That’s it – the white LED ceiling lights, the linoleum floor, the generic flower paintings on the walls – it really feels more like you’re about to be told grandpa isn’t going to make it than descend into the depths of sexual debauchery (that’s enough – Ed). The display is no less bizarre: two extra large boxes of Ferrero Rocher, plastic flutes, Prosecco and an arbitrary assortment of spirits ranging from branded vodka to some unidentifiable brown liquid that would remain unopened for the entire night.
The crowd includes some familiar faces – B-list Union hacks, at least two former OUCA presidents and the all-male committee of the Oxford Hayek Society – but we also find a large group of Worcester freshers and some rather discombobulated looking Balliol second-years. We mingle, attempting at first to conceal our motives for being there and branding ourselves as equally curious commoners, but Jill is soon outed as “someone who does something at Cherwell”.
A common conversation starter is “so, what brought you here?”. At least half of the attendees we ask were personally invited by the President of the Society. The other half found the event through Facebook. We discover that the organisers have run paid-for Facebook ads in the week leading up to the event, which raises another question: who is paying for this? The event description mentioned a £10 entrance fee, but nobody is charged. The night was pitched to College as a charity fundraiser for the Institute of Economic Affairs, a right-wing think tank which advocates positions including anti-climate regulation, and the abolition of the NHS. Thankfully, they receive funding from British American Tobacco, so the lack of funds raised tonight is unlikely to make a big dent in their accounts.
The event description also made a big deal out of cell phones being banned from the event. Failure to comply would “result in immediate ejection from the event”. This is neither checked nor enforced.
David walks up to a Union hack he recognises from a video shoot last week. “I think we’ve met?” “I meet a lot of people.” Fair enough. Another hack introduces himself indifferently to Jill. “She’s the Cherwell editor”, someone pipes in. “What did you say your name was?” A second handshake is offered.
Suddenly, the lights go out. Is this where the real party starts? Is the Pontigny Room about to turn into a darkroom for everyone to live out their wildest sexual fantasies? Some attendees (admittedly, ourselves included) are hopeful – until, after a few seconds, the room is illuminated with disco lights. Some people form a circle and play limbo with a leash attached to a guy’s collar. This feels quite symbolic in relation to our impression about the night so far. Then someone starts turning the lights on for fear of the Junior Dean, and writes the name of the so-called ‘charity’ on the whiteboard in the hopes it might deflect from the fact that nobody paid anything.
We decide to mingle some more. One guy acts surprised when Jill tells him she’s Irish. A group of people tries to convince us they are committee members of the infamous Piers Gaveston (‘Piers Gav’) Society: “Yeah, I was at the last Piers Gav event and it was a chill time, just good vibes, you know.” Somehow, that’s the only thing anyone at this event could’ve done to convince us they’re not a member.
We go outside to eavesdrop on the conversations in the smoking area. Using cigarettes as friendship bracelets, Jill is let in on the recent sexual antics of a certain fresher who “just might show up tonight” and create a “right scene”. There, a Hayek Society committee member tells us that “these drinks are just the warm up”. Of course, how could we have forgotten about the secret afterparty! The committee member boasts that the President has paid for taxis for everyone to the location of the party. We’re intrigued. Soon after, more people are led outside, but there are no taxis to be seen anywhere. So we start walking – nothing makes you feel like you’re in Oxford more than a group of mildly inebriated black tie dressed students dashing across High Street, narrowly escaping being struck down by the Brookes bus.
We stop at the Sainsbury’s outside the train station: “no alcohol, no entry”, we’re told by the President. What happened to the Hayek Society’s earlier generosity? We buy a bottle of Gordon’s Gin, hoping that OSPL might reimburse us (they didn’t). Suddenly, the taxis arrive. But we’re told that we’re only four minutes away from the secret location, so we decide to walk it. The secret location turns out to be… the Student Castle Common Room. Was the plan to sit here, stylish and modern that this fine piece of real estate is, and just drink? There are people around us having dinner and watching a football match. It seems like it. Other attendees, whose confusion has turned into frustration, are leaving. We sit down on some bean bags and debrief one of our fellow editors, who had high hopes of plugging Cherwell’s financial holes by selling this story to the Daily Mail (I said that’s enough – Ed).
We decide that the benefits of leaving and continuing our respective nights in Plush and Bully outweigh the costs of sitting awkwardly in black tie next to a group of grad students who were even more confused by our arrival than we are by their presence.
Did the night live up to our expectations? To be honest, we don’t even know what our expectations were. Did we get a night of (mostly) free booze on the Hayek Society’s dime? For sure. Is the Institute of Economic Affairs really funded by British American Tobacco? They are. Look it up. And if you are a Piers Gav committee member, please take us off the blacklist.
Correction 23/01/2022: The journalists have very poor taste in alcoholic beverages and failed to identify the white bubbles not as Prosecco but Lanson champagne costing £38.50 per bottle.
Image Credit: DANNY G via unsplash
