Rachel Lavin-
Last week, Halls noticed an undeniable increase in PDAs, whipped boys carrying Brown Thomas gift bags and even teddy bears on sale in the Halls shop for three euro. Yes it was that time of year again-Valentines, Eugh!
It is a truth universally acknowledged that being a single Valentine is depressing. Another single year, another forged card from ‘an admirer’ (thanks mammy!) and the bitter night out on the town indulging in the finest of Irish romance, a.k.a. getting drunk, getting the shift and getting a bag ‘a’ chips–classy.
Well not this year, oh no! Your Halls reporter is taking matters into her own hands. I mean how hard is it to find a nice 6ft tall Catholic Culchie with a good farm of land in Trinity? Ah yes…
Nevertheless, I think it’s about time someone tested the waters on Trinitys romantic scene. So (purely for investigative journalist purposes, of course) I set about finding all Trinity had to offer in the line of gentleman suitors.
With the average lecture statistically containing a future husband and wife, (cue the suspicious glances around the lecture theatre), and Hall residents constantly reminded of wardens stories–the married couple that met on their first night in Cunningham, etc.– I think it’s about time I found this future husband of mine!
Now the ideal is a doctor–rich, intelligent and of course I can take the title of Mrs. Dr. Husband (it beats the title of arts post-graduate anyway). Of course the added bonus is that he will always be busy saving lives and all that jazz; I mean, I won’t even have to mildly like him, giving me all the more time to spend his money and finance my failed journalism career. Sorted!
However, I understand this is a very particular ideal. Therefore, I will settle for a rich lawyer.
After all how hard can it be to get a date? I want to be like the romantic foreigners who just don’t understand our curious mating ritual. When I asked an American resident what he thought of the beloved shift he replied (drunkenly but more importantly, honestly), “It just leaves me feeling empty inside, so so empty, you know?”
And yes, why yes, maybe I do know. I resolve on a very drunken Monday night taxi-ride home that I have had enough of the shift. I want real romance, holding hands, long walks on the beach and the like. Yes, this is not the jager bombs talking, not the influence of having to study Jane Austen novels and certainly not the serious shortage of tall young fellas on the average night out. (Excuse the pun but seriously, you’d think they’d be easy to find hovering over the masses and what not. I wonder was there some kind of growth-stunting Chernobyl after-shock in the early 90’s?!)
Mr. Taxi-man agrees with my conclusion that chivalry is dead and he advises me to search for a ‘gentleman’, (never heard of it). But oh, the nights activities of social reform weren’t over yet. I return home and intexticated, reply also to my e-mails, including one in particular from a certain Plunkett McCullagh.
I wake up the next morning to find I have applied to go on Halls very own version of Take Me Out……
Of course my strong moral fibre disappears as soon as the hangover. An hour of staring in disbelief at the screen, self-cursing and frantic texts later I realize there’s no way to back out. My only resolve is that surely a little public humiliation and disgrace can’t be that bad…right?
For all of you who don’t know of this dating show phenomenon, one poor fella puts himself to the judgment of a panel of 30 girls who give an excruciating judgment based on the turning on or off of a light, or as Plunkett keeps reiterating all week ‘no likey-no lightey’. With this in mind, I walk into the canteen on Wednesday feeling as if I am walking in the ashes of many a burnt bra. Nevertheless this all changes when I am set down at a long array of tables and given a light. The power, the dominance, the heart-breaking potential, I feel like a pimped out Simon Cowell. This allusion probably also has something to do with a curious mixture of antibiotics and alcohol. (I was told I’d either pass out or get a ‘serious buzz’ and given my current circumstance I liked either of those odds).
It’s our usual Halls get together, everyone’s turned out and the canteen is buzzing. Plunkett takes the helm presenting. Let the romance begin! Five of Halls’ bravest boys ascend the stairs one by one for judgment. We’ve got JCR’s finest, Team Englands no. 1 player, and three other terrified faces. I have to admit fair play to these guys. They are either very brave or very stupid. The girls on the other hand are enjoying themselves to say the least. The cheesy puns pour out in fits of giggles. I myself am a bit more skeptical/hammered/harsh and power-mad. I vaguely remember challenging one poor creature over his skinny jeans, asking, “Do you plan on having children?”(I fully defend this, skinny jeans on boys are unnatural). However our presenter takes me up wrong and repeats that I want to know if the poor fellow wants to have my children. Possibly Karma.
After much chastisement of the boys the tables are turned with the awkward final round of light turning off, much symbolic of the quenching of these girls hearts.
This is not helped by the fact that none of the boys know how to turn off the switches, prolonging the agony. Of course, some of our panel refuse to give up their lights, some place them in their cleavage as a method of appealing for reconsideration; ineffective to say the least. One particular girl on realising hers is accidently the last light, instead of giving in, hilariously resolves to make a run for it. Ouch!
And then comes the final round question. The winners on the night had to be, (warning; serious cheese) described as regards what cereal you prefer-crunchy nut, and what Dublin night club you’d be –D2, as it’s cheap and easy to get into. Overall some beautiful matches are made, even a threesome for a very pleased team England boy. I however am not so easily impressed. Between skinny jeans, mullets and general cockiness it’s not the Jane Austen fairytale I had expected. Of course, I very nearly fall for the JCRs charm, (who is understood in Halls as mysteriously good-looking and ginger!?). But just as I nearly shamefully fall into the unexplainable JCR trance, I awake from my hypnosis to see a whole row of insistent friends making threatening actions that basically say, “If you leave your light on for a JCR, we will disown you.” I comply and am told later it was for the good of my ‘sexual health’.
The night ends dateless but I have to admit I’ve never had such a cheesy laugh!
However, as regards my allusions of romance I give up on my exotic fancies and return to the traditional Irish ways. Oh the shift, how could I ever stray from you?
So is Romantic Ireland dead and gone? I conclude there’s still a bit of a kick to her yet. Walking home from Rathmines village the next day I am reprimanded by a 50 year-old man to “go forra drriink.” I give him a look that says “I may be over 18, but you are a paedophile.” I return home not in complete despair; there’s always sugar daddy’s.
Hmmm, I wonder if the next Provost is free? Mrs. Provost Rachel Kearney definitely has a ring to it…
