My dearest Wardy,

We both knew this was coming. You’ve flown under the radar for much too long now but you are something of the elephant in the room for us all. I wantto help you solve our campus’ greatest mystery: why is it, dear Wardy, that you are so lame?

I don’t mean to sound cruel. We all want to love you — what sounds better than getting slightly plastered after a particularly gruelling evening class? But I can tell you what sounds worse: spending ten plus dollars on a single pint. You’re just too pricey, Wardy. I shouldn’t have to check my bank account before going up to the bar in fear that a single G&T will break the bank.

You already have the privilege of being a campus pub. A night with you should be automatically cool. But you squander your role. There’s a reason everyone at King’s goes to The Local every Wednesday instead of you. At most, you are a starting point — the tide pool of a Friday night. A place to gather your caravan of drunkards and then go somewhere better. The most exciting thing about you, dear Wardy, is leaving you to go out for a smoke. 

Enough of these theme nights. Stop dulling your sparkle. You don’t need Jeopardy! or Taylor Swift nights to bring people in. What you need, Wardy, is deals. Happy hours bring happy drinkers. 

And happy drinkers should be your greatest concern. We are all very impressed by your wet/dry license. We can all admit that it was pretty cool in first year, when you still seemed pretty cool. But who’s going to spend more money: a first-year student who won’t buy more than one shirley temple or an upper-year student trying to drink away their problems?

I see you trying to improve yourself. That little deal with Rumours seems swell, like tagging along with your older sibling and their cool friends. But Rumours is a 30 minute walk from campus — and come wintertime, you’ll be hard pressed to find any sane individual who will take that journey with you. Couldn’t you have found a closer friend?

I’ve defended you time and time again. I used to try convincing others (and myself) that they were just there on a bad night. But when our campus’ non-King’s friends get flanked at the door, put on a list and receive pre-emptive scolding for all the rules they may break, I find myself at a loss for words. You’re so choosy, Wardy. And you know what they say about beggars and their fabulous relationship with choosing. 

I want you to be better, Wardy. We all want you to be better. It’s not impossible — I know that, once upon a time, you truly were cool. But now the only reaction to any sentence that starts with “tonight at the Wardy …” is an eye roll. You have the atmosphere of a funeral party (and not the Robert Smith kind, no matter how many goth nights you put on). Breathe some life into yourself, Wardy, and snap out of it.

Yours eternally,

The Watch Magazine 

P.S. — what ever happened to the day students society? Surely you guys wouldn’t know, would you?