Entering King’s Affair from a shady Trinity Lane was like walking onto the set of 28 Days Later: empty and desolate, not to mention joyously queue-free. Haunting music, boiler suits and the veiled threat of anthrax greeted us as we stumbled past King’s Chapel desperately looking for booze. This mission was initially obstructed by a court full of inflatables. Aftermath indeed.

Apart from the cheeky thrill of being able to walk on the usually sacrosanct lawn, it was difficult to get excited about a blow-up slide and human foosball, especially as the dramatic surroundings were significantly underlit (an apocalyptic lack of electricity, perhaps?). Rule-breaking aside, the décor in the building itself was far more atmospheric: defaced portraits of Audrey and Marilyn, old crates, spray paint, writing on the walls. Like taking crack in a cheap public toilet. 

In keeping with smacked-out chic and suppressed appetites (thank you nicotine), the Affair kept you skinny by not replenishing the snacks, although the soup in King’s Café was better than a night out with Hunter S. Thompson. The committee did better in their choice of chill-out elements, as the event never quite reached the promised heights of a banging rave, with several of the promised DJs, who would have had any Hoxton hipster wetting their skinny jeans, failing to show. Shitdisco put on a sweaty dancefest next to the predictable and mind-numbingly generic drum and bass room - get your waving hands out of my face you pilled-up loons. 

Booze was plentiful and pleasingly non-pretentious in comparison to proper balls, where you can’t get a stiff drink without an umbrella in it and some kind of half-digested coulis; and the bar staff themselves were lovely folk. Shisha pipes and plastic crates in the inner court kept us gravelly-voiced and chipper, although the smurf-esque Morris dancers did their very best to kill our buzz. Downstairs in the cellars, lasers and a great atmosphere almost made up for the fact that the music being spun was disappointing (with the exception of the student DJs keeping the night going).  Upstairs the Nice Up DJs performed their usual magic with an endearing smile to a crowd mainly composed of their friends. However, by about 3am the only people having a good time were chemically lifted and waving glo-sticks.

It’s always refreshing in May Week to have an event defiantly in opposition to the traditional froth of your average ball. King’s made a noble effort with impressive décor and a relaxed atmosphere, but the bare fact remains that Cambridge is not and never will be cool. As with a lot of these events, it relied on certain kinds of people turning up and endorsing this kind of night. Saying that, the crowd seemed happy, the alcohol was in vast supply, and it all had the air of a glorified Emma Bar or Mingle: familiar beats, familiar faces, familiar outcomes. Happily stocked with doughnuts and chocolate fingers doled out to us as we left, we swayed home as the sun rose over the college.

Lowri Jenkins
and Lauren Smith