“Business in the front, party in the back”: these are words famously uttered to describe the era-defining mullet haircut. Coincidentally, they also apply to the concept of a subject dinner. Though we may gather under the guise of mingling with our peers and supervisors over a sophisticated meal for a night of glorified networking, the true purpose of the evening is clear from the outset: it’s an all-expenses-paid, faculty-facilitated piss-up. It’s also the place to be, and anyone who’s anyone in your small, subject-specific college cohort will be there. So, whether it be for the free wine or the BNOC-sightings, it’s a must-attend event. Buckle up, folks – the soirée of the season has arrived!

From the moment that RSVP begins to circulate, frenzy ensues – and military-levels of preparation begin. Calendars are swiftly cleared. Morning alarms are cancelled. Outfits are planned – it’s serious shit; all the fuss and fanfare serving as a welcome distraction from the mid-term blues, and offering an air-tight justification for a night of skiving and thriving. And after a long day of chugging ginger shots in a desperate attempt to ward off whatever quintessential Lent term illness is threatening to take you down at the single most inconvenient moment possible, a night like this is just what the DoS ordered.

“a night like this is just what the DoS ordered”

Okay, I’m exaggerating. The subject dinner may be something to look forward to, but the night’s invitation doesn’t quite get my heart palpitating and mouth foaming the way it seems to with the HSPSers I know. It’s not my superbowl – and I’m not crossing off the days in my calendar like a wartime wife waiting for her husband to return from the trenches. Still, it’s a nice, if slightly strange, idea. I mean, how often do students at other unis get wined and dined like this? Supervisor on one side, fresher on the other, clutching an emotional support glass of chardonnay as you carefully toe the thin line between appearing fun and off-duty, yet engaged and respectable – the kind of impression that works in favour of your end-of-term report, not against it.

To be clear: your position at the table will make or break the evening and – luckily for you – you have absolutely no control over this. The seating chart is gospel and will be respected as such. So, if you haven’t had your dinner yet, I’m warning you now: savour those 15 minutes of pre-dinner drinks – hunt down the familiar faces and say your “hello”s and “goodbye”s before it’s too late. At best, you’ll be seated close enough to one of them to have a short, shouted-across-the-table conversation in between each course. At times like these, it’s important you have perspective – for me, the realisation that my poor supo partner was thoroughly zoned out, having the ins and outs of Cambridge’s nineteenth-century female imprisonment process explained to him at length by one particularly enthusiastic fellow, humbled me unexpectedly. Yes, I may have been struggling to conceal my tipsiness from the sober fresher next to me, but all in all, I had it pretty good.

“The seating chart is gospel and will be respected as such”

With epic lows come epic highs, though (of which the subject dinner has no shortage). For one, it can be a seriously unifying experience, with collective angst over a deliberately ambiguous dress code (gowns optional?) forever forging coursemate bonds in a way that only the most humbling of supervisions normally can. Post-dinner drinks in the college bar do this too and, though mine is hardly Berghain, it serves as the perfect transition location for when you’re not quite sure if you want to keep the good times rolling, or leave the night on a high. We essentially spent the next hour shuffling out of people’s way and avoiding eye contact with the single most intimidating variant of human being to ever exist: fourth-year MMLers – a year spent sipping sangrias in the sun and kissing strangers on cheeks has endowed each and every one of these finalists with never-before-seen levels of aura – followed by a disappointingly tame stint at La Raza.

Despite any obligatory awkwardness, though, the subject dinner is ultimately a comforting experience. And at the end of the day, these are the only people who’ll listen to me whine on end about having to read Rousseau and Montaigne, or wax poetic about my DoS and her superhuman powers of organisation. They’re the only ones who can really get it, after all. And even if you guys aren’t friend friends outside of your course, or even if this is the first time you’ve spoken to each other all term, it helps to know that there are other people in the same situation as you, that might share your stress, or your frustration – or just who you can relay course gossip to when the time comes.