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Letters

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September 1 2003

ssugr1@cf.ac.uk The writer of letter of the week receives two free cineetting ma tickets courtesy of UGC cinemas, Cardiff. So get waffling and email ssugr1@cf.ac.uk

Bin Demand Dear gair rhydd,

Dear gair rhydd, I would like to express my utter exasperation with men who feel the necessity to perve, hoot and shout at girls walking along the street. These men all seem to emerge like maggots from their holes as soon as there is so much as a glimmer of sunshine. If I want to wear a fucking skirt and vest top on the hottest day of the year then I will. It doesn’t give anyone the right to shout obscenities about my arse or legs as they race past in their shitty white vans. Furthermore, I was even more outraged at the fact that the other day, wearing trackie bottoms, no make-up and sweating like a paedophile in a primary school on a ten minute walk, I still got hooted at twice. Do these people have no taste? This just proves it’s not a bloody compliment, but simply an excuse for laddish immaturity and blatant perving over anything that moves. Get a life boys... Yours, Pissed Off

H, and indeed, M

Fast Fool

Dear gair rhydd,

Dear gair rhydd,

I'd like to complain about the disgusting pigeons in cathays. They are a plague on the Land (God bless it) and damage the Queen's (God bless her) sacred ground. So I ask myself - how can we take out these horrible horrible creatures (if indeed one can call them that.) Well, I propose taking an AK47 and shooting the bastards in the arse, where their own rocket propulsions exude from. And then we should ship what is left of the carcus back to the Argies on the first boat out of here and let them deal with the shitters. But do you know who I blame? Bloody students. The little shits encourage those pigeons by cooing to them in the middle of the night Ive heard them in the dead of the night - "Coo! Coo! ooh! ooh! yes yes yes yes. come come come come on..." I hear the young lady next door yelling of an evening. And the worst offenders? the student paper. with that lefty nonsense, criticising HM (god bless her and all who sail in her.) Long live the Queen! Down with the gair rhydd (especially sports. Don't ever think you've qualified to the level of features. As if.) Kind regards, Si

Letters is supported by UGC cinemas, Cardiff

Last night a DJ saved my life. No, really. I was just walking down Salisbury Road after a wonderful evening of lash when I came over all queer. I mean, I follow a macrobiotic diet and exercise every day, but there I was with a craving for fast food - and of the lowest imaginable quality! I thus headed for as many takeaways as I could, hellbent on blowing what pittance remained of my savings on greasy portions of offal and carbohydrate. Soon enough, my wallet was empty and my hands were full, burdened with carrier bags, filled with enough dormant botulism to take out the pan-Asian basin. I was doomed, and there was nothing I could do about it. However, as I reached my home stretch, something extraordinary happened. I tripped up over a small box lying in the middle of the pavement, scattering my foul purchases far and wide. As I lay, shocked, in fried chicken and beef (?) curry, a friendly hand pulled my up, and a voice asked "are you all right?" looking up, I saw a man. It turns out that he was a club DJ, and the box was some records he was taking to the house he was staying at that night. My memory of how I returned home is shaky (I am still unsure as I write this), but at least I didn't wake up a bloated corpse surrounded with empty wrappers and boxes, my blood turned to gravy at the onslaught of grease. I want to live! I just want that mystery man to know that I thank him from the bottom of my heart. Ron Howard PS: Do I win five pounds?

If I’ve got one gripe with Cardiff at the moment, it’s that it’s a bit manky. My walk home is an obstacle course of stinking bins, bits of cauliflower and rapidly congealing dog logs. Clouds of shining bluebottles scatter in my path; a rat the size of Lassie crossed my path outside Marks and Sparks last week. My favourite environmental hazards however, are undoubtedly the discarded kebab turners on City Road. Mmmm, good! Well, okay, it’s not that bad. Freshers however; watch your step. Love and Peace, Gareth ‘Shitty Shoes’ Lloyd

Balls To It Dear gair rhydd, I can’t believe the short sightedness of Cardiff City football club. Here we have a club being pushed forward by an ‘eccentric’ wealthy businessman in the form of Sam Hamman, yet they are still blind to what is surely a great wad of cash dangling right beneath their noses. I’m talking about the student pound. Sure, most students will support some faraway Premier League topping side or their local team from whence they came, but I’m sure that of the 15,000 students attending Cardiff University a great deal would be interested in supporting what is their local team for most of the year. Yet the club refuses to acknowledge their existence, without even the suggestion of a student price ticket (a policy which has been adopted by many top clubs.) Cardiff City is a club on the up, and as they work their way to the top of the first division and into the Premier League, they should be widening their narrow views in terms of potential supporters. Yours, Cityboy

Penfold: Bald C--t God I am so bored in my rural obscurity during the summer holidays that I thought I would type a stream of consciousness and send it to gair rhydd. Here goes. Oh Prickenstein why do you munch on so much penis? Gobble gobble gobble. Just like some kind of turkey. A cock gobbling turkey. I just don’t have the rhythm in me. I’m really jealous of people who do have the rhythm in them. Off the top of my head I couldn’t name any names though. Maybe Dangermouse. Not Penfold though. He’s just a bald cunt. If you shave your head you’re not really bald are you? I mean not really bald. Just, well, just shaven. A tall goth with a dog collar who I went to

The gair rhydd letters page gair Rhydd is read by just about every student at Cardiff University then beyond into the realms of UWIC and the city. This letters page is your opportunity to have your say about pretty much anything you might want to have a say about, so students fresh, stale or just slightly going off get typing and have your views read by your peers. PS. If your department is worth it’s salt it will have issued you with your very own personal e-mail account. Please e-mail rather than send your letters in, there’s trees out there dying and shit. sixth form college with many years ago told me that there is no sensation greater than that experienced when one has their scrotum shaved by one’s girlfriend. His girlfriend was very nice, also a goth, but still very nice. I trust that she would have done a great job of shaving her boyfriend’s scrotum. Typing rubbish like this is pretty brainless and rather boring but it is more boring than just sitting doing nothing so I’m going to continue until I have something better to do. I suppose I could go and do a chore like walk the dog or hoover any one of a number of carpets in the house but damn it I don’t want to do that, I want to sit here and type and type and type and type and type and type until I can type no longer. I wonder what the world record for the largest amount of words typed in one sitting is? I wonder if I could beat it. Maybe I should phone Linford

Christie up and ask if he wants to come round my house and present a TV show based around my typing achievements. Actually I reckon I’m going to stop typing quite soon ‘cos I’m really recall really really, really recall really bored of it now and I’m sure that there are many better things that a young healthy person such as myself should be doing. I can’t think of any at the moment. Maybe playing cricket with disabled children, or helping old blind ladies across the street ‘cos they can’t do it very effectively on their own. so many things I could be doing. So I’m going to have a countdown to the end of this typing session. so here goes, twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, and stop. Bored farmer

Joy of text

Text us: 07791165837 “Iz muthafucka a real word?”

give me a gay ride now thank you”

“I was walking down cathays on my own last night but I didnt see any students cos its summer n they r all away”

“i hate uni why am i coming back? i should stay at home and work in a book warehouse like my mum does”

“I hate man u they r going to fcuking win again cnuts”

“patch adams is the worst film in the world ever”

“was sending this txt really worth the 20p it cost me? no but i guess it is 2 late now isn’t it” “I h8 summer its too hot for me” “booooored and not in Cardiff. I cant w8 for september so i can have student fun again and read gay ride every fooking day!!!!” “bugger i failed a module so i’ll be back in cardiff for a resit. this is so wrong i cant begin 2 explain.” “i dont know if my jeans look cool or not. They are baggy but not tha baggy. When r u 2 old to wear baggy trousers? I reckon about 21” “dont say fcuk or bugger!!!” “i miss gay ride i want gay ride

He’s drinking beer, but I’m texting gair rhydd!

Please e-mail your letters to us at grletters@cf.ac.uk gair rhydd will attempt to print any letter sent in but apologises for those that do not make it in due to space restrictions. The views expressed in these letters are usually not those of the newspaper or the editor.

gair rhydd - Issue 742  

gair rhydd - Issue 742

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