The most impressive evidence of the Celtic theme of Downing Ball was the great gruff bouncers, who looked more used to patrolling the nightspots of Dundee than the breezy courts of Cambridge. There were some nice misty orbs around the entrance, but the papier-mâché menhirs were more Asterix and Obelix than Danu, mother god of the Earth. There were more kilts on show than usual, perhaps in an effort to get into the spirit of the thing. One gentleman announced himself as descended from Clan Ogilvie, and accused us of stealing his sheep.

The fireworks were very green and purple, but still impressive, as they splashed above our heads. They suffered from the lack of a backdrop or backing music, and the Celtic thrust was further confused as the first half was juxtaposed with the salsa emanating from a neighbouring tent. Culinary highlights included tasty fruit skewers, an extensive cheeseboard and Fitzbillies cakes. The most popular ent, aside from a greasy hypnotist who convinced three men that they had 24 foot long penises, was the “authentic rock band” Stingray. They covered Ash and the Kaiser Chiefs loudly and flatly for an hour or so.

The cinema was a surprising success, screening classic films to melancholy couples sat on green leather chairs surrounded by champagne in ice buckets. Alas, the vodka luge was a less edifying experience, blasting ice cold vodka into our nostrils, eyes and hair.

Elliot Ross and
Dylan Spencer-Davidson