Everyone knows that rumours fly fast and loose in this town. Today I want to tie one down and get it out of the way.

Some might have you believe that under the streets of St Andrews, there is a vast network of ancient pathways and tunnels, twisting and connecting with almost every building on Market Street, North Street, and the Scores.

There is, allegedly, a tunnel lined with thousands of human skulls and femur bones between St Sallies Hall and North Point. Some say there is another that runs underneath the Scores, linking the castle with the quad. And still another that connects the Union building with a sea cave between East and West Sands. These rumours go on and on.

In these tunnels, they will tell you, are man-eating coyotes whose ragged and stinking coats are laced with cocaine and crystal meth. These cocaine and meth covered coyotes run rabid, miles beneath our feet, eating mutated squirrels, mentally handicapped pigeons, and lost seagulls.

I have been told that this ecosystem resembles a tropical paradise, a place of beauty, balance, and perfection beyond our wildest imagination.

I have also heard, from truly traumatized witnesses, that the Director of Representation traditionally converses with these creatures, and consults them for their wisdom.

Whether he speaks their language, or if they speak his, is unknown to anyone. However, if I had to speculate, Sam Fowles does strike me as the type of person who might know several dialects of squirrel.

According to one particularly grizzled and weary English lecturer, the Kate Kennedy Club has a special initiation rite in which hopeful members must stalk these tunnels and hunt a coyote. Unless an individual emerges from the sewers with a hallucinogenic hide, they cannot join the revered club.

Access to these tunnels is almost impossible, though. One horrified and schizophrenic drunk assured me that there is only one known way into the vast network.

There is a door. A purple door with silver hinges. None of the people I interviewed knew where this door was. But they all had heard of it.

The door is only open for 15 minutes every fortnight on a leap year. The guardian of the door is a Norwegian drug dealer with one eye and a face full of scars. His first and last name is Wolverine. To gain access, you must know the correct password.

The correct password is

“Quetzalcoatl.”

There are even looser and wilder rumours, without any confessed witnesses at all, of a vast throne room beneath the castle, in which a pale blind bishop holds mass. He has an arrangement with the Christian Union, which regularly sends him virgin freshers to copulate with.

They give birth to gigantic crocodiles, who roam the beaches late at night stalking drunk Arts students.

In exchange for these freshers, the CU is blessed with the magical ability to continue being ignorant and homophobic.

These are some of the ancient myths and fables of St Andrews. They have never been upheld or preserved by any society, club, or organization.

It is the drunken denizens and rabble-rousers, the meth freaks, cokeheads, and maniacs, who carry on these verbal traditions, and retell these legends.

These lunatics and psychopaths do not need our support or appreciation. In fact, they don’t need you at all.

They will always be there, guarding the underground history of our town, whether or not we know it, or care.

But of course, this is all poppycock. Personally, I don’t buy any of it.

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