Raisin Revisited

A lyrical testimony of St Andrews’ long-esteemed tradition

In my humble opinion, the tradition of Raisin in St Andrews is important and honourable. It is a trial which each of us must undertake. On any other day of the year, the actions carried out are ones to be ashamed of, but for one brilliantly debaucherous day a year, they are necessary and fundamental to the St Andrews experience. 

‘Twas the morning of 19 October. I was snug in my bed, dead to the world, and dreaming about this week’s philosophy syllabus, the comforting hum of Kant and Aristotle rolling through my subconscious like slow traffic on a Sunday. Suddenly, the door exploded open — no knock, no warning, just the sharp crack of chaos and the rank, syrupy stench of Jägermeister cutting through the air. It was only 4am, though time was already starting to feel less like a number and more like an impending threat.

They came in waves, my academic kids — the little monsters I had mentored, advised, and moulded into reasonable humans. Now they had turned into a pack of jackals, loud and fearless, eyes wild with the kind of deranged purpose only undergrads on a mission can muster. I sat up, blinking, trying to remember which reality I was supposed to be in.

Before I could say a word, they descended, hands on my arms, giggles filling the room. There was no time for reaction, only acceptance. Curiosity, nervousness, terror, and excitement shot through me. A nappy. A cape. A bald cap. Somewhere in my mind, the words “Captain Underpants” surfaced like a bloated corpse. I tried to protest, but it came out as a slurred mumble. Someone shoved a shot into my hand. Jäger. Or maybe petrol. It burned the same either way.

As a fourth-year student, I was supposed to be beyond this — lauded, even feared. I was a veteran who knew which halls to haunt and which parties to vanish from. But all that confidence was slipping away, dissolving into the fluorescent haze of too much alcohol and too little dignity. The room tilted, laughter echoed, and someone shouted something about destiny. I think I agreed.

By the time they dragged me out, I wasn’t sure if I was walking or being carried. Everything had gone viscous, sounds melting together, lights bleeding. I remember the hallway, the cold floor under my bare feet, the cape fluttering somewhere behind me. Then nothing — just the faint taste of sugar and regret. 

They brought me to the edge of the North Sea, its icy waves washing over me and stealing my bald cap as a sharp jolt of adrenaline coursed through my body. Stumbling up West Sands and looking down, I realised I was almost entirely naked — only a small cape covered the nape of my neck and the now mostly see-through nappy concealing the rest. 

The wind hit like a slap, cold and merciless, cutting through whatever haze still clung to me. The sea was behind me now, indifferent and roaring. Ahead was the town, waking up, the grey light of morning spilling over the rooftops with a kind of smug serenity that mocked my entire existence.

West Sands stretched out behind me like a crime scene. I started walking, barefoot, each step grinding salt and sand into my skin. The nappy clung to me like a curse. The cape flapped weakly in the wind, a tattered banner of my own humiliation. Somewhere in the distance, a gull screamed, probably laughing.

The first signs of the common man appeared near the edge of town. Runners, bright and earnest, full of electrolytes and purpose. They looked at me, then quickly looked away, shocked and horrified. One of them smiled uncertainly. I nodded, the kind of nod that says, ‘Yes, this is exactly how I planned to start my day, thank you for noticing.’

By the time I hit North Street, the shops were opening. I moved through the early crowd like a ghost from a cautionary tale, my skin tight with cold, my brain pulsing in slow, ugly waves. I caught my reflection in a shop window: pale, wet, nappy on, and the small red cape fluttering behind me like the last shred of my decency. A man reborn, in shame.

People were staring now. Some laughed, some pointed, one old woman crossed herself. I kept walking, head down, muttering something about philosophy and the absurdity of existence, as if invoking Camus might grant me cover. 

Indulgence and drink had been a strong theme of the day, and it was not even 8am; a long battle still lay ahead.

Upon reflection I have come to the better conclusion that Raisin is a collective humiliation ritual disguised as tradition, yet amidst the chaos there arises kinship. Although maybe this is wishful thinking attempting to mask mortification.

Photo by Olivia Morse