The first post-freshers event of the year came dressed in tartan and wrapped in Scottish music (ranging seamlessly from the Biffy Clyros to the Bronski Beats). With drinks consumed and bingo in a half baked scottish accent swiftly forgotten about- "My daddy worked on the clyde, 55"- the party moved on to the basement of the infamous Highlander, every expat's favourite Scottish bar. By 11pm, the back row of tables became a makeshift dance floor and the rest is a fond tale to be told at dinner parties...
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