It’s a somewhat rainy afternoon on 3 June 2025 and I’m getting ready to head to the big event. As I stand in my room trying to select a stylish outfit, I realise that the accumulated karma from all my years of ignoring any semblance of fashion has finally returned to fuck me from behind with a vengeance; in my wardrobe it’s very slim pickings indeed. I finally settle on my most formal black jeans and the only dress shirt I own, which is also black. To the eye, these two garments morph together into something somewhat resembling a boiler suit. Chairman Mao would be proud. I try to break up the monotony with a turquoise blazer, which I pair with a green umbrella (stolen from a housemate). This, I figure, can be used both to keep off the rain and (if necessary) as a melee weapon. The result is passable. Clad in my fatigues, I leave home and start my long march towards the battlefield, rattle of machine guns in the distance.

My fellow TLP editor and partner-in-crime meets me by the Roger Kirk Centre, near the Summer Ball shuttle bus stop. What crime, you may ask? The answer is swindling York SU out of two free press tickets to the Ball (market value: £55.00 each), in exchange for a single, shitty article written well after the event. It’s difficult to feel bad, though. Those idiots fall for the same grift every year. On the bus we realise that neither of us thought to bring an SD card for our camera, leaving us without proper photography equipment. Luckily, at The Lemon Press, we can improvise like pros.

We arrive at York Racecourse around 19:00, and I can immediately tell that this shit is fancy. Even the bouncers they hired are fancy, as in that the man we speak to when trying to find the Bell Tower entrance, where we’re supposed to pick up our press tickets, is both friendly and helpful, rather than mean and intimidating. We pick up our passes and enjoy the reception, including a red carpet, a free can of energy drink, and a photographer on the door. Guy even thought to bring an SD card. Very professional, you showy prick. You think you’re better than us?

Inside, I immediately start recognising faces, and I’m not entirely sure how to feel. Whilst I’m happy that I’ve managed to become such a part of the student community here in York, I can’t quite shake the dread that so many of my friends are sad and/or posh enough to spend extra cash on an early-bird ticket. Have I fallen in with the wrong crowd? No turning back now. I’m in too deep, and my wingman (wing-woman, actually) has found a group and started to socialise, leaving me no choice but to join in.

Working our way through a shockingly familiar crowd, we eventually run into our very talented Chief Illustrator. She says a quick hi, but then pisses off to go hang out with other people. Apparently we’re not cool enough, but this does not offend me one bit. I’m calm and collected, and I easily refrain from making a mental note to stick this incident in my report of the evening. We then manage to find our president, who has made the long journey up from London (where he works, possibly as a hit man) to spend time with us. Our brilliant reporting team complete, we forge ahead and start to explore the event.

Our endeavour starts out great. We have the brilliant idea of waiting ‘until later’ to try out the variety of fairground attractions that the Summer Ball has to offer. It’s quiet now, but later will be worse than packed. I forgot my crystal ball at home, however, so only common sense can help me arrive at this conclusion. Suffice to say I don’t go on a single ride all night. Instead I pay £6.20 for a coke (the kind you drink), because I made the mistake of ordering a pint instead of a can (£3.10 each). Having realised my error, I decide to stick with the beers from now on.

With our tanks slightly fuller and our wallets much lighter my group goes outside for a bit, but our next proper stop is the University band stage, the highlight of our evening. I don’t manage to listen to each different band’s variation on indie rock as I spend some time walking around (during which I have funny misunderstanding with a sound technician who thinks I’m trying to sell him cigarettes), but the overall quality is exceptional. I’d like to give a special mention to The Tonics, as they were especially great and they and The Lemon Press go way back. They still, however, won’t respond to my many many email requests about a The Tonics X TLP merch drop (including a Fortnite legendary skin). They wouldn’t let me crowd surf off of their stage either. Dicks. (Just kidding, I’m a big fan really! But seriously, consider the merch.)

After the majority of the bands have finished playing, we walk, vision blurring and voices slurring, to the adjoining room for some karaoke. As is the long-standing tradition in this noble sport, the room is swelteringly hot and packed full of people. The screen displaying the song lyrics is lost in the throng, and the combined noise levels of the crowd and backing track are just right: loud enough that you can’t really hear the drunk person belting ‘Mamma Mia’ at the top of their lungs. After approximately an hour of waiting, during which some of us dance and I stand there waiting around like some loser as there’s nowhere to stand my umbrella and I’ve wound up carrying an expensive camera (minus one SD card), our song is announced and El Presidente Lemon Press (as is our President’s official title) steps up to the microphone to deliver a beautiful rendition of ‘I Will Survive’.

This over with, we fairly quickly say our goodbyes and head outside to catch the shuttle bus back to Campus East. On my walk back home, I suddenly realise I haven’t eaten in about ten hours. Maybe that’s why I got cranky and used my umbrella (which ended up being necessary for all of ten minutes) to beat up three people. I want to get some food, but decide to change out of my blazer before doing so. Since it’s well past midnight and I live in the deep dark depths of Tang Hall, I’d prefer to look like someone you wouldn’t want to fuck with. I half-ass the job (throwing on a dirty T-shirt), but still partially succeed, in that I just look unfuckable instead. Oh well. Off to the petrol station. Refined gentleman that I am, I end up selecting the Hull Road BP station, boasting a Spar supermarket, from the extensive catalogue of petrol stations available to me. I’m in luck. The guy behind the sales desk actually lets me in (not a guarantee, this late at night), and I’m able to browse the meal deal shelf. A familiar end to a long night out.

When I finally get home, I warm my frozen pizza up in the oven and eat it half-cooked, watching the sun rise.