Post-Roses 2009: Roses doesn't need pruning

That writing has since been underlined, italicised and switched to a ridiculously obnoxious font as York passed the winning threshold on Saturday and crept towards the 200 mark as the competition reached its conclusion. But while those taking part in matches on Sunday might feel a little aggrieved at having the importance of their result slightly diminished, claims that the three-day jamboree should be a little more competitive, and a little less inclusive, are difficult to defend.

“It’s a joke, there are too many events,” I hear them cry. Do Ballroom Dancing and Ultimate Frisbee (no, I will not truncate the name of canine frivolities to lend them some air of edginess) really deserve a place in Roses? “Of course not!” scream the hordes of nay-sayers whom I may or may not have made up for the purposes of this article – but just like Heather Mills after a particularly insensitive mugging, they’re without a leg to stand on.

Some of the match-ups that hold points may not be Olympic sports, but then it’s pretty clear that this isn’t the Olympics. Roses is a release from the dire, stale suffocation of an insular student environment. The influx of visitors from Lancaster introduces an unpredictable element to proceedings, like a famous actor doing a two-episode guest arc on Scrubs, and the more people that can get involved, the better.

As explored by Helen Graham, it’s not some sterile, ultra-serious battle for sporting superiority. It’s an actual escape from the usual rubbish, but it’s done well. Consider the other traditional calendar ‘highlights’: graduation takes place in a building that reminds us of examination disasters, not architectural triumphs, while the summer ball is a rip-off when it’s held away from the university and would probably be derided as a joke if they ever wrestled it onto campus. Somehow, when we do Roses, we do it right.

The reason that so many people look forward to Roses is that it consumes campus for these three thrilling days. At times it can seem like this town hasn’t moved on since the vikings left, but the start of each summer term sees the student body resuscitated after the horror of exams as if it’s just had a needle of adrenaline plunged into its chest, Mia Wallace style.

For one all-too-brief weekend, 'York pride' suddenly takes on a new meaning – it’s no longer a locally-brewed bitter, but instead a close-knit community binding together like forwards in a scrum. It’s like Notting Hill carnival with less stabbings, or Glastonbury with more rugby: we shout, we sing, we actually watch university teams compete, and we give frenzied coverage to niche sports that would have to throw a social with the theme of ‘Nazi golliwogs’ to get attention at any other time of the year.

If anything, we should be looking to expand the scope of our one shining light of liveliness. As it’s one of the few times of year Brian Cantor allows himself to be caught with the hoi polloi, perhaps we should rope him in for a Vice-Chancellor arm-wrestle? Maybe establish a tug-of-war with the sabbatical officers? The spectacle is key – how else do we explain Lancaster’s unflinching commitment to upping our campus quotient of nudity every two years – and so culling competitions would undercut the whole thing.

Forget the fuddy-duddies that only care about the rugby, football and netball. When else would you get three different campus media outlets battling to get an interview with the fencing captain? When else would the rugby 2nds get an audience? And when else do we actually enjoy something organised by the university? Roses doesn’t need a revolution – it’s perfect just the way it is.

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