Has St Andrews Gone Naff?

Like any good logophile, I always have an arsenal of words du moment and, as ever, I have some bangers on the go. However, among “woof,” and another word beginning with “w” not fitting for The Saint, the current favourite is “naff,” essentially meaning something that, despite trying to achieve class or style, is a bit tacky, ingenuine, or, to use another favourite, ghastly.

Nothing gives me greater pleasure than describing things as naff. In my notes app, there is even a list called “Things I find naff,” and it is my magnum opus — my Sistine Chapel, if you will. Ranging from the inherently naff to the more obscure, its contents include crushed velvet, fake Christmas trees, Formula One, GCSE Spanish, and the United Nations. Surprisingly, however, 47th on the list is the “posh uni” — and, yes, this includes St Andrews.

Now, generally, St Andrews is the opposite of naff — if it were down to a vote, our red gowns would probably be made of corduroy, and the hairlines of our men recede aristocratically, in sync with the West Sands tide. Nevertheless, having gained its bourgeois reputation, certain types have clung to this ‘posh’ idea of St Andrews and try to mould themselves to fit the ‘brand,’ and, consequently, have made the whole thing, well, rather naff.

The first guilty type we’ve all seen: the one, probably American, who has decided that their St Andrews years should be as quintessentially ‘posh’ as possible. For this, they need ‘the look,’ but they crucially miss the point. They buy the wax jacket and cop some wellies but forget that before they’re fit to be seen in public, they must be dragged through a pack of your grandfather’s hounds and the boggy moors of your Highland estate. They get their clay pigeon shooting membership, get the gilet, then never show up. They attend the polo, but they haven’t a clue what the rules are, and people keep saying the word “chukka.” This confuses them, but at least they got a picture of themselves gazing nonchalantly at a pony with a glass of Whispering Angel.

Another type is one who may be ‘posh’ but acts as if someone could take this away from them with the same fervour as Rachel Reeves takes away Daddy’s money. Not necessarily seen, it can certainly be heard, specifically in the question, “What school did you go to?” Terrorising innocent freshers annually, the wild social climber hunts for its prey — ‘mutuals’ with whom they can reminisce about boarding school in a kind of RP utopia. And why not? Why risk mixing with those plebeians from state schools or, worse, the North? That would be unbecoming. Fortunately, this mostly dies down as people realise you might be ‘good chat’ enough to be worth lowering oneself to speak to — even if you are from Leeds — but mainly because the grifters they met in freshers’ turned out to be, shock horror, utterly shallow.

The next type goes for the artsy/old money/academia aesthetic, scouring charity shops and vintage stores for obnoxiously rusty jewellery, mildewed garments of the deceased, and other shabby chic implements which end up looking shabby s***. On Instagram, they promote their ‘elegant,’ ‘demure’ image by posting pictures of poetry by authors who can’t use punctuation. But whilst they snap the pages, smell their musty scent, and spill their black americano whimsically on them, they forget to actually read them, losing genuineness to performativity and looking, well, naff.

Naturally, the ‘posh’ seekers aren’t restricted to these types — we all occasionally humour the stereotype, and, as a fiend for patriotic hymns on curry-spattered dinner tables, mea culpa. However, to avoid being naff, one must retain genuineness, inclusivity, and, crucially, individuality. You can celebrate your weird accent, flaunt your streaky fake tan, and enjoy feeling like you know Gregg personally — I do, and I feel wholly accepted. Because I have nothing to hide, I take pride in my roots and varied array of friends and, most importantly, I have a signet ring.

Illustration by Abigail Svaasand