Lincoln is a conveniently central, if rather tiny, college. Its bar is a short trek from a handful of colleges, and one which is actually worth making. The bar, called Deep Hall, ingeniously named in reference to its relative placement to the College’s Hall, was identifiable by the sign on the door disallowing externally bought food and drinks.

Although I perhaps wouldn’t have described the cellar bar as ‘atmospheric’, the chosen adjective on the College website (which I first consulted to check that this cozy college even had a bar), it did immediately seem to be a pleasant environment. The room was modern, uncluttered, unpretentious, warm, and surprisingly full. The furniture and decoration was mostly basic and unconventional, with the exception of a few gaudy blue plush couches by the door, which looked comfortable, if out of place, among the wooden benches.

Upon approaching the counter, I was quickly served by the burly, blokey barman, whose confident competence was a refreshing change from the usual lazy confusion of humanities students trying to fund their Park End addiction. When I asked for the college drink, he just laughed at me, and explained that the nine-pound concoction is designed to get rugby lads drunk in five minutes, and would have me under the table. This choice of target market surprised me, considering the content, subdued, hipstery clientele that filled the bar (shoutout to the notable wavey hero in the neon orange suit) but perhaps the intention was to get them out as well as drunk.

Embarrassed, I settled for a pint of pale ale from the fair selection of beers on tap, which was considerably cheaper than the aforementioned toxic cocktail. With a perfectly balanced mix of friendliness and efficiency, he poured it and moved on to the next group, leaving me grateful I’d thought to bring money, as the card machine opposite the entrance charged an extortionate £1.10 per transaction. Despite the friendly, social crowd, it was easy to hide behind a table in an alcove in the wall for a private catch up with an old friend. There we weren’t bothered, due in part to the good acoustics of the lofty cellar, and there we remained until the bar closed oddly early. At 11 pm (and on a  weekend night, no less), we were politely ushered out of the college and made our way to a proper pub.

Although unspectacular, Deep Hall is a pleasant place to drink and socialise, assuming that you remember to bring cash with you and don’t expect the character, uniqueness, nuance, and tradition that your own college bar may offer.

Rating: ★★★☆☆ (3/5)

Often seen as the epitome of Oxford grandeur, the lavish summer balls are an event that every student should experience at least once. But most attendees know little about the work that actually has to go into them from fellow students.

Before matriculation, interviews for our ball committee were advertised. I  eagerly signed up because of my niche set of skills, including obsessive punctuality, and a passion for overloading myself with a to-do list as long as the walk to St Hugh’s. Each role in the committee was given a brief description, and during the ten minute interview we had to have a stab at selling ourselves and our skills to the co-Presidents and Secretary. Admittedly, I didn’t think I’d done a good job of convincing them that my future lay in  marketing and advertising… or that my summer job as a cocktail waitress would greatly enhance my contribution to the planning. However, I made it and within the first meeting we threw ourselves headlong into theme selection. Despite sugar laden sustenance, our creativity often seemed to fail us. After at least two hours, the suggestions had well passed appropriateness and had entered the realm of farce, including a 50 Shades of Grey theme and, my personal favourite, ‘Disco: The Ball’.

After two meetings, we had boiled it down to one idea, which had started to take on a somewhat focused form. The creative team were hard at work on Photoshop designing logos, and marketing were already ‘hot on social media’ and obsessively tracking the most effective techy ‘buzzwords’ to sell the idea of an eerie, yet decadent event amongst some of Oxford’s most divisive architecture.

Our first major tasks were keeping the theme secret and selling the premise to college, tasks which we somehow managed. We accomplished this through a launch party which managed to clash with both what is arguably our college’s biggest social event of the term, the aptly named World’s Biggest Crew Date, and the St Hugh’s ball launch in Bridge. It didn’t seem to matter. Arzoo fuelled our college pride, and the lingering taste of curry was a sickly reminder the next day of this special occasion.

The next hurdle was our first release of tickets to college students, and we were impressively backed by IT skills that I will never understand (Google ‘html’ and ‘coding’ and you’ll soon see why). Over the Christmas break, each team was then tasked with actually getting our collective organisation into gear, making plans, and schmoozing businesses. This included an online battle with a printing firm that shall not be named, which lasted over two days, and included an impressive level of headless-chicken-panic at my inability to format a PDF file.

Now, how many of you have thought about how ball trailers are filmed? Well, it actually takes an awful lot of work, some reasonably professional student directors and some not-so-professional student extras. The efforts behind our trailer included a traumatic trip to Botley for equipment (never going that far past the train station again), a day of freezing in summer ball gowns and a co-
President losing most of his dignity by spending half an hour as a glorified door stop. In a tragic twist of fate, the ball trailer never made it out in time to entice ticket customers. We made it to ticket day in one piece. Expecting to spend my entire session of morning lectures unsubtly replying to queries on my phone, I was pleasantly surprised (read: astounded) when we sold out in nine minutes and 20 seconds. Most likely due to last year’s reputation, and least likely due to my fitting the word ‘hype’ in every Facebook post about the subject.

That allowed us approximately half an hour of ‘pat on the back’ time before returning to the meetings to start actually finalising vaguely important things like entertainment and food. The next weeks of Hilary and the Easter vacation may become a totally confusing blur of caterers, diva DJs and missing marquees, but I can tell that the night will be worth it. 

On the day of last year’s Halfway Hall, warfare began. In the house I live in now, a fight broke out. At the beginning of this Michaelmas, five third years remained.

Yes. I am intentionally speaking in a dramatic tone. Now, it is time for our own Halfway Hall. The morning starts with E&M-Mate moping into my room. “Someone’s taken my Mature Cheddar.” I enter the kitchen to aid him in his grumpy quest. But it seems E&M-Mate’s cheese is not the only thievery. My mozzarella is missing. Is-He-My-Mate-3rd-Year is missing two wraps. Boxer-M8 is missing two eggs.

Screams echo about the house. Posts in our Facebook group ensue. A scream comes from Ditz. The toilet is yellow-puddled. “WHY WON’T THEY LEARN TO STOP PISSING ON THE TOILET SEAT?” My mouth opens and shuts. Her door slams, and a minute later a Facebook notification pops up on my phone. She has posted. The third years’ heads rear with anticipation for their response. Mock-retorts follow. My phone ding-ding-dings.

“WHY WON’T YOU STOP LEAVING HAIR IN THE SHOWER?” “STOP LEAVING YOUR DOORS OPEN!”

Cyber passive aggression reverberates about my head. Banter or no banter, by the evening I am glad to get out of the house. As wine trickles from bottles, the weight of the day falls. I ignore the knowledge that I have a term and a half left to gaze fondly at the linguist opposite me. I ignore that I am yet to succeed at existing.

As we glide from drinks to Wahoo, all feels harmonious. Even Wahoo itself. A curse on our house? Pish. The night ends as our ears truly begin to hear the attempts at mixing music. But instead we stumble upon a warfront. An open suitcase which lay lonely on the street earlier is now barricading my bedroom door. Clingfilm covers the toilet. Ditz-Friend decides to have a shower to wash off Wahoo vibes.

As the shower stops, I hear the steady stomp of her feet, and she opens my door. “Come see this.” I follow her into the bathroom. On the shower wall is scribed ‘F U’, in hair. I laugh, and tell her to take it down. “But it took me ages to get the hair out of my hairbrush!” “Take it down. We can’t antagonise.”

The next day, as I pick up my razor, I see something jammed in to the blades. Looking closer, I see that it is cling film. I put the razor down slowly, close my eyes, and quietly sigh.