Shona McGarry | Blogger
After going home last weekend to my real family, it was time to spend the first weekend of November with my academic family, another posh St Andrews tradition that I don’t think I did justice to by comparing to the so-so TCD student mentoring scheme I had vague memories of from first year. Having a family is a year-long commitment that students take unnervingly seriously. Pity, then, that I only set about finding myself a mother last week under the looming pressure of Raisin Weekend. In atypically overzealous fashion, I found myself two, one ‘real’ and the other ‘foster,’ seeing as all of her children had run off and she was in need.
Academic mothers and fathers are third years who don’t mind spending time and money on already-spoilt first years (or lonely Erasmus students). On Raisin Sunday all the kids go to their mother’s house with ‘raisins’ (cough, wine) and the mothers send them on a scavenger hunt and feed them. It can be either the best or the worst day of your semester, depending on how evil or perfect your mother is.
Luckily, mine is the latter. My real academic mother is perfect in that she didn’t make us over-drink on Sunday, and she took me under her motherly wing just weeks before Raisin. Sienna is a friend of a friend from home, and she made us Mr Men costumes for the Raisin Monday parade, which beats Playboy bunnies any day. The other girl I had pledged my childhood to in the wake of her offspring’s mass exodus was counting on me and my friend Ed to turn up on Sunday no later than 11.30am. Sienna and her fellow mothers – my aunts (one thing you learn from Raisin is that academic families are as complicated as real ones) – were starting at precisely 9.37am. Right, I said to myself. I can definitely do this.
Then we played relay races and I felt like I was in first class again, only with tequila.
First of all, I was late, as usual. That merited punishment, but my lovely aunts and mothers decided that a mere two shots was enough. Then we played relay races and I felt like I was in first class again, only with tequila. At 12pm, and a little worse for wear, we headed out scavenger hunting. We piled into a phone box, my cousin kissed a stranger, everyone proposed to other kids on Raisin (including one who, upon hearing I was from Trinity, said, THAT IS LIKE SO BORING, and then proceeded to ask me for a photo because one of her tasks was to be in a picture with a ginger. I told her that was almost as offensive as insulting Trinity), we gave an old lady flowers and took a boy band photo on the golf course. After that, it was time to hit up my ‘other’ family, because Ed had sent me exactly 32 texts demanding that I save him.
When I got there, I was in trouble. Trouble consisted of a glass of mysterious punch filled with, among other things, vodka, red wine, pepper and gin, and a shot of chilli vodka. My other mother was immediately in my bad books, and once there, it’s nearly impossible to get out. Just ask anyone who pissed me off in sixth class. Anyway, after that unpleasantness, Ed and I set off on my second scavenger hunt of the day, this time taped to a crazed Scot who kept openly insulting people on the street. After some sweet-talking (‘shut up and detach yourself’), we waited for him to get distracted by an equally drunk girl before speeding off down a lane where we hid for five minutes until the coast was clear. Unfortunately, after seeing one too many people throw up in front of St Salvator’s, we made the executive decision of going home. Foster mom gave me a call when we didn’t return. I said that the issue, really, was vomit-related. She didn’t ask.
At five we went to my friend’s father’s do. That’s the second part of Sunday – going to your father’s for a party. Unfortunately the floor was taped with plastic bags – more of an invitation than a deterrent to vomiting first years – and there was a mysterious smell coming from the stairwell. We left after a glass of extremely substandard cider-y wine and went to Dervish, our resident Turkish take-away, which is where we always end up after a night, disappointing or not. The only difference was, it wasn’t quite 7pm yet. Not quite 7pm and Kat had already gone home with half of our friends, while the other half of us were shivering in a pizza place acting like it was two in the morning.
My other mother was immediately in my bad books, and once there, it’s nearly impossible to get out. Just ask anyone who pissed me off in sixth class.
When the table next to us broke into a needlessly out-of-tune rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody, we knew that that would be our last impression of Raisin. Little did we know that ten minutes later some weird man riffing to Justin Bieber’s ‘Baby’ would actually be the last act of Raisin before we left for home.
Raisin Monday started in much the same vein as the day before. I was late, as usual, and I spent the morning wandering around with my family, this time dressed as Mr Tickle. The colourfulness that Raisin is known for shone in the bright Monday light. There were collections of demons, munchkins, sunflowers, and a troupe of Wally Watchers (the followers of Where’s Wally. I was a big fan). The foam fight sadly had to go on with this sneezing columnist, and by 12pm everyone was passed out in bed. Despite its flaws, Raisin is as much like Christmas as it is like St Patrick’s, another festival that divides opinion.
Your family will be tipsy, you will give your mother presents, you will get dressed up festively and you will wake up the next day with a slight headache and a bit of a cold. Despite the unsavoury emphasis on excessive drinking, which I think should be addressed by the college – Ed was unimpressed with ‘Have I Never Ever’ (as he calls it) and we were all affronted by the St Patrick’s Day level of public drunkenness – Raisin is an experience you won’t want to miss, and it’s the kind of celebration that could only happen in a small town.
The only thing to note is this: don’t have too many families, and never, ever, tape plastic to your floor.
@shozzmcgozz
