A Eulogy for Neverland

Welly Ball Returns

Welly must begin with a history lecture.

Once upon a time, Welly Ball was the riotous finale of the St Andrews University Clay Pigeon Shooting Tournament. Students from seventeen universities would descend on Fife, full of hubris, champagne, and recoil bruises. The ball was their catharsis — a place to fling both food and inhibition. For years, the food fight made Welly infamous: waiters fled, potatoes flew, and somewhere between the wine and gravy, someone usually cried.

Recent Welly Ball committees have been especially anxious not to have this occur. Fearing concussions and bad press, they called time on Neverland.

November 8, 2025. The highlight of my day had been touring my grandparents around town — Welly stayed reserved in the back of my mind. As I walked my grandmother down South Street, we stumbled into a member of the Clay Committee.

“We’ve been told to keep away from you,” he said, grinning. “Things could get a bit…out of hand.”

A lofty promise. One, I’m afraid, Welly didn’t keep.

Balls in St Andrews are never just nights out. They’re 24-hour productions — hair appointments, ticket resales, and post-ball hangovers. The wellies started appearing in the morning, and by late afternoon, they had lined up through Tesco like a bread line. There I met Max: moustached, tipsy, and his hands gently caressing a bottle of Hardy’s Sauvignon Blanc. He was thrilled to learn that I’d be writing about the event.

“Put my dating profile in there!” He ejaculated. “I’m looking for a Latina baddie. Bonus points if she can speak Catalan.”

Amused, I nodded and wrote it down. Best of luck, Max.

By quarter to ten, I arrived at Falside Mill. My tour of duty began with several delirious students — the afternoon’s wine had put them right to sleep. Falside Mill’s exterior resembled a slightly posher Skid Row; it smelled like it, too. Toilets are never the classiest part of any ball, but I only draw attention to it as I was enlisted in a shield wall to block security’s eyes while a few gents took turns relieving themselves behind the bins. Tough times; tough decisions. I could’ve kissed whoever had made wellies the footwear of choice — their foresight when it came to vomit, piss, and spilt drinks was impeccable.

Inside, though, Falside played its part in the illusion of grandeur, fairy lights bridged the rafters, and flowers wreathed the walls. This year, the committee had gone further than usual, adding a live band —  Since Juniper — to the afterparty, a first for Welly. Food trucks ringed the exits like sentries, preventing any early escape. I didn’t sample the churros, but one cook’s decision to pop one into his own mouth felt like a good enough endorsement.

The scale was impressive: around 2,500 guests, making Welly one of the largest student-run charity events in the UK — and one that raises tens of thousands for the Charlie Waller Trust each year. A remarkable operation.

“I paid £98 for the worst meal I’ve had in my life,” said another. “But it’s always terrible – year in, year out. Clay people just think the food is there to be chucked [rather than eaten].”

Wandering through, I felt watched with every step. Security were everywhere, eyes scanning. When I spoke to a member of the Welly committee, he looked almost relieved.

“[The food fight] is a liability,” he said. “Unfair to the waiters, the musicians, the security, the press.”

A sensible decision. The right call. But what a dreary thing it is to be right; Welly Ball had come of age, and in doing so, had put away the absurdity and childishness of youth.

I stood towards the back of the main hall and watched the writhing mass of bodies and black tie. It was alive, sure, but fun? Debatable.

I was reminded of my first clubbing experience, aged sixteen, in Porto Heli. It was a sobering experience, which is the opposite of what you want in a club. Fun was only achievable through complete inebriation – Welly had the same air of pretend.

“I wouldn’t have come if I had to buy a ticket,” a bassist commented in the green room, which operated on drips of free tequila and comparing Welly pay cheques. “But Welly always pays well.”

Perhaps this was inevitable; every generation sanitises what the last made scandalous. Welly, once dirty, vile, and degenerate, is now curated. Old traditions have had their backs broken, to the disappointment of every clay-er I spoke to. It remains ridiculously posh and expensive with all the unpleasantness that comes with Clay tourists visiting from up and down the country, but the shamelessness has been replaced with a quietness. It makes you miss the dirt — at least the dirt was honest.

The clock struck 1:30am and I’d had enough. I slipped onto the coach, mind heavy with thoughts about the night. Watching my breath fog the window, I realised what had gone missing. Welly used to be our Neverland — the one night when posh students could be ridiculous, messy, shameless. It was immature, classist, and often terrible. At least it was different.

Now it’s just another ball. Safer, cleaner, quieter.

I walked home, feeling slightly relieved that I wouldn’t have to take my suit to the drycleaners — and faintly bittersweet that there’d been no reason to.

Rest in peace Neverland.

The wellies are still clean.

Photo by Joss Wildgoose Bulloch