Jack Gibson ¦ Contributing Writer
My night in numbers:
- 151 VPLs on show for the world, venously creeping beneath painted-on body cons.
- 6 growlers peeking out from under hiked-up dresses over the course of journeys to and from Tullamore.
- 1 young woman being awkwardly fingered in open view for all to see, against a weathered portcullis by some ham-fisted, ham-sandwiched young man.
Hunzos, Huns, Stunnahs, Girlos: call them what you will, this genus of young female were out in their droves last Friday night at TCD Law Soc’s second annual Masquerave and my, oh my, the spectacle they created for all to behold.
With third year upon me and the rather grim realisation that my days at Trinity are numbered, I have of late made an increased effort to partake in the college scene as much as I can. It is here, at these events, these Freshers Balls and society nights out that I have noticed these tango’d, musty, dusty creatures of the night in ever-growing numbers, and they inspire nothing short of terror in me.
Who am I talking about here? It’s hard to say exactly; they are a creature of the conscience, really. Essentially – you know one when you see one. That feeling you get during a midnight pitstop at McDonalds, curdling with the gallon of free society wine in your stomach, is generally a good indication such a harpy is before you. A certain aesthetic is prevalent; a face dipped in make-up, a dress so tight it reveals venation, hair so “effortlessly tossed”, hairsprayed and flammable it presents a genuine fire hazard for everyone in a 50ft radius: these characteristics, though not definitive by any stretch of the imagination, can render a Hun recognisable. To define a stunnah, it’s difficult really, but it generally appears hazed in a cloud of powder-foundation and apathy, and is more concerned with the comings-and-goings of Made In Chelsea and Geordie Shore than with actual tangible things. She lives life by the motto of “YOLO” or other equally moronic, self-evident, meaningless phrases, and wears dresses that their mothers’ would have worn as either t-shirts or skirts back in the day. They signal what’s current. They signal the end.
Meanwhile in the corner one girl weeps and incoherently babbles about some boy, while her companion attempts to readhere said crier’s fallen fake eyelash.
More notable and detestable than their appearance however is their “awful carry-on – not very ladylike at all”, as my Nana would deem it. As a means of illustration, I’ll detail a scene from Friday night. 8 huns, all in their first or second year, and in some law discipline (from what I gather). Five of whom are attempting to play some form of drinking game which involves calling out offensive nicknames to the other players while attempting to keep a beat by slapping their palms against the tops of their thighs (guess we know where the term “slapper” comes from, amirite?) Meanwhile in the corner one girl weeps and incoherently babbles about some boy, while her companion attempts to readhere said crier’s fallen fake eyelash. A last and lone girlo remains, applying so much pale powder she begins to resemble a voodoo witch doctotl. The beat falters and stumbles to a stop. A cheer. “Sorcha! Drink bitch, drink!” A countdown begins inviting one of the players to hastily gulp down her Rosé. Now, don’t get me wrong; I adore drinking games, I adore drunken weeping and I adore Rosé. But what I don’t adore is the behaviour that swiftly followed. Two of the aforementioned Hunz had to have the bus pullover for a cheeky tactical chunder. It wasn’t even 11pm. Another, while on her way to exit the bus upon our arrival, kneed an unconscious young man in the back of the head without noticing and proceeded to spear my toe with her tacky stiletto. The remainder, during a short walk up the driveway, indulged in exclamations on how “focking yipped” they were, and even performed a hearty rendition of ‘Wrecking Ball’. Perhaps I’m a prude, but in my books that sort of thing is just not acceptable before the wee hours of the morning.
Where do they come from? (Not in the geographical sense; although if money were on it, I’d hazard Dalkey) What made the hunzo the way she is, and why does she do it? For men, would be a viable estimation, to garner their attention and “courtship” which would ultimately lead to the validation they so desperately crave. A sad fate, and one which is wholly avoidable.
Girlos, to ye I speak now. Think of the sexiest, most fabulous female there is. Be it Angelina Jolie, Beyoncé, Cara Delevigne, Alexa Chung… even Katy Perry for God’s sake, there are two common strands: the first is each woman was specifically not in the habit of drinking themselves into oblivion and getting their tattas out every weekend in order to attract men. The second is confidence. Yes, the age-old, essential ingredient to any sexy brew and Summer Roberts’ favourite piece of advice “confidence Cohen, confidence.” Self-assurance and respect; grace, humility, conscientiousness. These are the constituents that comprise such formidable femmes.
Granted, as a bitchy gay man, I’m your natural enemy. Perhaps you think I’m spouting all this venom because I’m jealous that you’ve gotten with half of the rugby team and once scored Daniel Radcliffe at Dicey’s
Granted, as a bitchy gay man, I’m your natural enemy. Perhaps you think I’m spouting all this venom because I’m jealous that you’ve gotten with half of the rugby team and once scored Daniel Radcliffe at Dicey’s. It’s conceivable. But regardless, heed this warning: take care of yourselves. You don’t want to be that wan who in twenty years time is still stumbling down Harcourt Street at 5am with one broken heel, hair resembling a mid-80s Cher and the haunting realisation that you’ve to be in work in 4 hours. This is my advice; take it or leave it.
