We all know the feeling of being torn between the responsibilities of dawn's rosy clutches and night's seductive grip. Sally Mapstone blows duty’s horn as the first slivers of light creep over crashing waves, beaches, and steeples. By the time they reach DRA, I am squirming in a regretful pool of last night’s triumph. I pay the price of Union-sanctioned passion with missed academic expectations, betraying responsibility for love. So, when I saw Tristan and Isolde  in Edinburgh a few days ago,...

Carving a path through a conversation with your average St Andrews know-it-all seems difficult at first. Their cold demeanour seems impenetrable. They speak down to us from fortresses built out of the endless books they’ve supposedly read, gates closed to all except those who speak their deceitful tongue. Smug and self-assured attitudes guard the keep’s entrance, spewing impossible riddles. Annoying caveats and pedantic remarks keep conversation from flowing. Most irritating is the verbose...

STAUCA and the power of the underdog Whilst sipping one of Aikman’s most eccentric beers in the all too familiar cellar of the bar and bistro, bubbly conversation was forced to a close as all ears pricked towards one side of the room. A chorus of tories, rosy faces barely poking out from a mountain of tweed, took centre stage as what could only be described as a dirge fighting tooth and nail against the slow encroachment of progress began. Hearing William Blake’s ‘And did those feet in...