Editorial Committee
Editor___________________________________JASONMANNING
DeputyEditor____________________________DHILLONLALJI
ArtEditor&Illustrations___________CASSIANCLIFFORD
THE LINCOLN IMP
Ah, hello. Please, do come in. But make sure to take your shoes off, I don anyfootprintsonthepagesof Imp.Well,maybepagethree,butdon
I’ll be honest, I wasn expecting anyone, to be perfectly frank. I was just sitting here, minding my own business, casting my eye over the magazine which I almost finished. But thank goodness you I’ve finally got someone to share my problem with. It’s quite a big problem too: a lot of very lovely people have written a lot of very funny things, a seriesofarticles,stories,andpoems,andI writesomethingnow:theeditorial.
This cursed phenomenon first materialised at theadventofthewrittenwordbutdisappearedfor several million years due to its utter freakishness. But for some reason, on some day in the not distant past, it returned in dramatic fashion (and definitelynottopadoutthewordcountsofstudent publications).
I’vebeenthinkingabouttheeditorialforawhile: coming up with ideas, reaching dead ladders to escape said dead escapesdead-endsforlong.Eventually,aneditorial mustappear,comewhatmay.Aneditorialmustrise upfromtheashesofascatteredmind.Ideasoldand new must gather, combine, coalesce, and possibly become something. In my case, an editorial, and hopefully not a strange picture or a limerick or an essay (though, the last one could be quite useful duringoneofOxford’sobligatoryessaycrises).
Butwhatdoesaneditoriallooklike?Shoulditbe
editorial will be there and everyone will be clapping… albeit inside my mind where everyone’s nice, ladders appear at the click of my fingers, and Brasenose is no more. Knowing me, the editorial will probably be quite meta and only quietly amusing. But that’s OK, it’ll probably turn out that thatis The Lincoln Imp’sU.S.P.anyway.
By Cassian Clifford
LThe Ghost of Lincoln House
incolnHousecanbeaneerieechoofthe mainsiteatnight,withitsownquadfull of pots andtarp,closed off from the low glow of the Covered Market with rows of angry hooks.Itbecomestheso-called‘PrisonBlock’inthe sleepy, friendly pocket-town of Lincoln College, which seems to have many secrets from its 598year history. At night, the library looms near Lincoln House with its vacuous but decorated ceiling and the shadows cast by the slow, spiked irongateandleaninggravestonesoutside.Ialways walkoveratleastonedeadalumnus’splaquewhile studyingCiceroandwonderif Ishouldbe steering clear. Who knows what spirits we may have awakened from the drunken tomfoolery of the Halloweenbopalone?
Thepresenceofaghostisunsurprisingaftersix centuries, especially in a gothic church and the cramped, claustrophobic staircases which first years scuttle up and down, day and night. Maybe there was a disturbance when the plumbers installed the ensuites, practical boxes of utilities crammed into one side of the room, or when the builders filled in the fireplaces, leaving odd sectionsofwalltackedoverwithpinboards.
The network of shoeboxes we call Lincoln House can be windowless and devoid of colour when we brave the journey home, especially at 2 am.Rainoftentapsonourwindowsandthegarage
door creeks as it closes, a crawling, unnerving sound if we have left our windows open at night. Footsteps overhead are never surprising, but the darkened Turl Street frequently has us looking over our shoulders, a ghoulish chill reminding us wearen’talone.
Lines of bedraggled, confused residents are what I always remember on these mornings: I can see them stalking in a sleepy line, rubbing their eyes, and asking what is happening. It’s a cold trip down to Turl Street if you don’t take the time to grab a jacket and brave it in your pyjamas, while othersshiverintanktopsorhuddleinblankets.
Buttheincidents,theystartedwithdeodorant, and nobody was the wiser. An embarrassed student approached the porters and blamed the alarmonacantheyhadused.FreshersWeekwasa time for trial and error, so we were oblivious to what was truly afoot; we were fresh faced and expected Lincoln House not to be alone in these repetitiveincidents.
It worsened. There was an incident at 2 am, confusiononanearlyWednesdaymorningbitterly cold.Whateverforceresidedhere;itbegantotaunt us. The shrill scream of the alarm would last anywhere from thirty seconds to minutes: the ghost would bundle us out onto the street or simply scare us long enough to have its twisted fun.
Butonetrickstillgoesunsolved.Itwasabout10 amwhenthealarmsounded,whensomeofushad alreadystartedtheday,whileotherswerestillhalf asleep.Wefollowedthestepsoftheoverstimulated bystander in frontof us, forming a production line of frustration which the ghost must have been entertained by. The porters began their typical checks for smoke but found nothing – even when they tracked down the room, there was no sign of the cause. No one knew my neighbour to be a troublemaker, but that morning I spied his room over the shoulders of the confused porters, checkingthesourceoftheringing.Itextedhim;he wasn’t in the building; he was already at lectures. There was no smoke. No deodorant. No culprit (at least, not a visible one). We withdrew back to our
rooms, deeply unsettled with hair-trigger nerves, waitingforthewailofanotheralarm.
Even now, the sound haunts me. It can follow you anywhere, screaming in your ears or echoing menacingly, reaching across the road as you seek reliefintheteaandbiscuitsatWelfare.
Sometimes, I swear the Imp in the bar is grinning at me, holding secrets from me. Maybe it knows the truth, maybe it knows the demons and spirits of Turl Street. After all, its iron gate prison seems flimsy; in an instant it could scuttle up the stairs and out of sight, spying on spectres and students. Whoever is responsible, the Imp will never tell. The culprit will go unimpeded in their tormentof Lincoln House residents, unless we can summonamedium.
‘Mister Rector tear down this gate!’
By Freya Owen
Onceuponatime
InthelandofTurlStreet
Worldofcollegessublime:
TheheavenlyJesus,
ThelovelyExeter, Andlet’snotforget DearLincolnitself, Thethirdbestasset
Forthelittlefreshers, TheyhadLincolnLibrary
Cateredtoacademicpressure, Anduponrollingshelves
Booksandbooks
Alltothemselves
Essaydueatthree Owhatglee!
Iamoffto LincolnLibrary, Afinestudent
Iamgoingtobe
Thereisjustonething AboutLincolnLibrary Thatdoesn’tbringzing: Thatisthegate, Theimpenetrableentrance Wealldearlyhate
Iscanmybod Andwaitforthegate,slowasasnail.
OmyGod
Amillionyearspassby, Ifthisgatetakesanylonger Imightjustdie
Justthen,anotherevil Isaddedtothemix: Afellowstudent‘friend’.
Ofiddlesticks, Pleasemakemyagonyend
Awkwardglancesensue, Thisdamningsituation Makesmefeellikedoo-doo!
Enoughofthisgatedamnation: Pleasegofaster Andleadmetolibraryelation
‘Maybescanitagain?’
Thedemonstudentsays. However,allwisemen Knowthiswillonlyend Intortuouswait
Finally,somethingemerging? Thegateopensacrack... Afterhoursofdiverging Isqueezeanddashthrough Likeastarrunneronatrack
Finally,mytorturehathended Goodbyetosmalltalk Inowleavefeelingsplendid. Butthegatetorment Willneverdrawtoaclose, Itwillofcoursegoon, Forevermakingmemorose.
L.C.F.C.
An Ode to March 2nd 2025
By Luca Moretto
This Hilary term, L.C.F.C. was painfully close to achieving something special in promotion from the fourth to the third division of college football. A Lincoln squad depleted by injuries and tutorials came up just short against Trinity and other results not going ourway(matchfixing)meantwefinishedjustfour points off the promotion spots. Apart from the Trinity match, a Mayers-Jones hattrick against Univ., a verystrong1-1 drawto Queens, anda 7-2 defeat to the old boys after I had declared we would win by at least ten goals, the highlight was surelythe12-1victoryoverSomerville.
As the sun rose on that Sunday morning at the
beginning of March, I knew this game would be specialwhenitwasconfirmedthatRadici’sbrother was refereeing. With the biggest L.C.F.C. win in recordedhistorybeingthefamous6-1overTrinity, a 12-1 was truly unprecedented. The most surprising part of all though was undoubtedly Tatton Brown silencing the critics to bag himself three goals. You know it’s been a good day when over half the team get on the scoresheet and both your centre backs get hattricks. Yet, we still await thedaywegetacleansheet.
Looking ahead to Trinity term, 18 signups for futsal means we will have 2 (!) teams and I finally havethepowertodroppeopletotheseconds.
Westlaw and Pray: IRACing through Oxford with Mods, Moots, and Mild Existential Dread
By Polina Kim
Loading, please wait. Indeed, you wait, because what can you do, but wait with bated breath as the blue circle spins slowly, slower than your head that’s for sure, for thethousandthtimetonight,andyousendaprayer to the Gods of Westlaw to please be merciful. No results found no results found for a promising young lawyer who’s just gifted and talented enough,tobeatthesearchengine,surfthereading list, and come out on top at some normal human time in advance of the swiftly and surely approachingtutorial.
This reading list has been devised by an incredibly smart professor, most brilliant academic, excellent tutor, and just all-round wonderful human, but really, could they possibly bemistaken,couldthiscasejustnotexist?Isitthe year, the name, not v. but and? Is it that you’re a lawyer or an unfortunate computer scientist? Unfortunate, of course, because as a law student the false accusations of thinking that you’re better than everyone else, inevitably end up not being false. Except in law, no one points out the syntax error, when Westlaw, driven by pure spite, pretends to be incapable of understanding basic humanspeech,andrequiresitsownlanguage.
The lawyer language, which you observe but, it is respectfully submitted, you haven’t quite yet grasped. You know the one. The one that gelled hair- three piece suit- goes to every Law Society
event-isabuddingUnionhack,wasbornspeaking, when he somehow appears next to you, flashes thosepearlywhites,andasksforyour LinkedIn,not your Instagram, and promises to grab a coffee some time, which really just means never. Most he’ll do is DM you a week before elections asking how you’re doing, and oh how lovely, anyway so there’sanelectiononFriday
Yes, that lawyer lingo you were expected to know, well, yesterday. Not that it would help with youractualdegree,becausethebestpartis,youare guaranteed a 2:1, no matter how much effort you putinaimingforaFirst.Mostyou’lldoisraiseyour scores from 63 to 68, get commended for your progress, and move swiftly onto the next of the seven deadlymodules you’re expected to study on your course. It gets you a bit in Michaelmas, when youcomeinasahopefulfresher,certainallittakes is hard work, and then realise that maybe sleeves are unattainable, anda commoner’s gown is really not that bad, because to get that First, as you realise by Hilary, about a week before your Moderations, you need to have thoughts and opinions.
Thoughtsandopinions,howdeceptivelysimple, surely everybody thinks, and you can too. All the academicssaysomethingdifferent,andyouhaveto have anopinion, but youreallydon’tknow how to have anopinion,orwhattothink, becauseit’s two in the morning and you’ve been reading the same
tutor will magicallygive you the right answer, and itwillallbecomeunderstandable.
The tutor will simply smile indulgently and say not quite, and then casually point out a fundamental flaw in your reasoning on a simple Wednesday afternoon, that makes you undergo an entire paradigm shift, and leaves you doubting every single choice you’ve made thus far, asking:
Assault.Yourfriendhasanotherdiresituationship? Let’s call her V, and he’s D, and suddenly it’s another one-page long problem question: what offences,ifany,havebeencommitted?
MaybethesolutionisjustapplyingIRACtoyour life. Issue: Is an Oxford Law Degree a violation of Art2oftheECHR(herehumblyrephrasedasright toafunlife)orisitjustexcellentSQEpreparation?
Rule: Per R (on the application of a desperately tired student) v The Legal Education System 2025 UKSC 1: “any complaining and suffering is to be expected as a package deal of signing up for this.”
Analysis: Path A: Learn to quote from Miller I and II in your sleep, and spend hours securing a training contract, comes with begrudging respect, to make it worth it. Path B: Register on a certain platform and monetise your dignity faster than a first-year student says quid pro quo. Conclusion:
Their lordships (your parents) took time for deliberation and concluded that you’re really not that good at dancing, your LinkedIn bio already says, “future trainee solicitor” (optimism admissible as hearsay) and thus your application for judicial review is denied. Outcome: See you at the next careers fair. The advantage is you finally found the case you were looking for. What joy, it’s on the shorter side too, only 373 pages that you haveabouthalfanhourlefttoread!
The Departed
By Milo Donovan
Hacking (verb) /ˈhakɪŋ/: the process of gaining votes for an election in an Oxford society, typically the Oxford Union.
“to successfully hack, you must arrange a minimum of three coffees a day”
Thelifeofahackisacuriousthing.There is no other undertaking capable of commanding, simultaneously, such a sense of revolt and veneration. Of admiration, of worship, even. Maybe the only comparable professionis thatof a pornographer.Itmaybe the onlyequitablesurrenderofone’stime,one’seffort, and especially one’s dignity to the art form. Hacking is the complete dedication to the dismantlingofone’ssanity.
Where to start but where, of course, it must start:atthegates.Onemightimaginetheseopento landsofplenty,ofrhetoricandofsheernetworking glory. Indeed, when walking into that hallowed hall, all the grandeur once idolised in YouTube Technicolor is now laid out before you. And you enjoythefirstfewdebatesandspeakers,freetodo what you like, when you like. Unburdened,
unsullied,andfree.
Then comes the pat on the shoulder. The glancing blow of running – you’ve always been interested in the debating haven’t you? You’ve alwayslikedpolitics?Youcouldmakeitbetteryou know. It’s nothing – it won’t be a competitive election, see how you find it And suddenly the eveningescapedescendsintoanauseatingcocktail of knowing looks, whispered plots, and hushed exchanges. Constant, attritional, and to the uninitiated,invisible.
AndwiththattheUnionbecomeswhatcanonly be seen as the equivalent of a leech. Slowly, the bankaccountdrainswithticketaftertickettotacky event after tacky event. The gut wrenching feeling of someone whose vote you thought was yours being pulled away by a fellow hack. The slow but definite alienation of those you once held dear
THE LINCOLN IMP
around college. The pitiful exchanges of ‘long time no see’ and ‘it’s good to see you’ as you amble towardsyourowncollege,ontheambush.Parasitic -hackingfromwithin.
Andwhat’sitworth?Thelongnightshuddledin Bridge,coweringinacorner,deludingyourselfinto believing that’s a vote winning strategy. The nomination speeches, competing against the legions of others skimming through AI summaries of the week. The tsunami of hope as yet another pledges their allegiance, before the sickening sensationoftheweeksrunningout.
TheUnionisaplaceofdreams:ofbackstabbing, of lying, and of just the occasional feeling of pride. Ifyouliketowakeupinacoldsweateachmorning, ifyouwanttoshudderthroughthenightswiththe sword of Damocles above, betrayal, then welcome. There’s plenty of others just like you. Join up, pay the fee, get suspiciously close to a Standing Committeecandidate,andmaybe,justmaybe,they mightletyouin.Happyhacking.
The following narrative section is inspired by the ending of James Joyce’s Dubliners:
The air of the chamber chilled his shoulders. He stretched himself cautiously along the bench and sat down beside a fellow hack. One by one they were all becoming shades. Better to pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than to fade and wither dismally with the degree. He thought of how she who sat beside him had locked in her heart that image of powerinhereyeswhenhehadtoldherthathedid notwishtorun.
Generous tears filled the hack’s eyes. He had never felt like that himself towards any ache of power, but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes
andinthepartialdarknessheimaginedhesawthe form of a young man seated at the Presidential desk. Other forms were near. His soul had approachedthatregionwheredwellthevasthosts oftheDeparted.Hewasconsciousof,butcouldnot apprehend,theirwaywardandflickeringexistence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself which these Departed had one time reared and lived in wasdissolvinganddwindling.
Afewlighttapsuponthepanemadehimturnto the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquelyagainstthelamplight.Thetimehadcome forhimtosetoutonhisjourneywestward.Bridgeward. Yes, the Cherwell was right: snow was generalalloverOxford.Itwasfallingoneverypart of the dark central courtyard, on the Library rooftop, falling softly upon St Michael’s Street and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark, mutinous Thames waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely Cornmarket, whose underfoot had only been so freshly laid. It lay thickly drifted on the windowsills and benches, on thespearsofthelittlegate,onthebarrengrass.His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintlythroughtheuniverseandfaintlyfalling,like thedescentoftheirlastend,uponallthelivingand theDeparted.
Anditborehim,then,initsicygrip.Anditheld him,firm,andcold.Andinhimitevokedthespirit of the child come out to play, rekindled, reinvigorated, pathetic. And yet he kept playing, evenwhenallhisfriendshadgonein.Andwhenhis fingers had purpled, thenblackened, and when his eyes went hazy with love for it all, there was no warmthlefttoguidehim.Hehadbecomelost.And consumedbyitall.AndthenhewasDeparted.
And The Motion Passes...
By Dhillon Lalji
Every three Sundays, the college is abuzz with apathy, as once again, it’s time for the highlight of college lifethe J.C.R. meeting. As roughly half the officers committee and some bored freshers with nothing better to do take their seats and tuck into their Franco Manca pizza (assuming they’re lucky enough to avoid the awful truffle
flavour), they all ponder the same simple question: ‘why are we here?’. The President and Indie Chair sit at the front of the room, desperately waiting for 20 people to arrive, so that they’re able to begin the meeting. The longsuffering secretary, tasked with detailing the proceedings at each meeting, recorded the followingminutesforthelatestoccasion.
MINUTES: J.C.R. GENERAL MEETING
HT 2025: 5th Week
MEMBERS PRESENT: Independent Chair, President, Vice President, Secretary, Treasurer, CRED Rep,E&EOfficer,DisabilityRep,SteakFairy,Welfare
APOLOGIESSENTBY:
Imp Editor-toobusychasingdownpeoplewho’vepromisedtowritearticles,butwhohavenot asyetsentany.
DjungleskogFairy-toobusytryingtoworkoutwhataDjungleskogactuallyis.
ANNOUNCEMENTSBYTHEJ.C.R.PRESIDENT:
• In the (unlikely) event anybody is interested in running for the positions of Environment Rep, Steak Fairy, Sports Rep or Arts Rep, they should submit manifestos to her or to the indie chair.
• In the coming days, there will be yet another WhatsApp poll on whether to change pizza providersoncemore.
TherewillbenodinnerinhallnextFriday.
ELECTIONS:
Election to the position of Lincoln Unites President
THE LINCOLN IMP
PROPOSITION M1: FUNDING FOR A NEW FOOTBALL PITCH IN THE FELLOWS’ GARDEN
TheJ.C.R.Notes:Theproposerswouldliketoconstructanew,largefootballpitchinplaceofthe fellows'garden,asthecurrentsiteisdeemedtoofarawaytomakeittomatchesontime.Moving thisfacilityclosertohomewouldallowtheLincolnteamstospendmoretimetraining.
QuestionsFromMembers:
1. Would the college actually approve of this? The proposer notes that they almost certainly wouldn’t,becausethefellows’gardeninitscurrentformisanimportantpartofthecollege.
2. Is the garden actually big enough to host a football pitch? The proposer notes this hasn’t actuallybeenchecked.
3. Howmuchdoesthiscost?Thisisunknownbutestimatedtobearound£100.
4. Who would the first match be against? Brasenose of course, and they would be heavily beaten.
Is the proposer actually good enough to make the team? This sparks a heated debate abruptly stoppedbytheIndependentChair,whocallsavote.
Result: Motion passes unanimously.
PROPOSITION M2: FUNDING FOR THE LINCOLN IMP’S QUEST TO GO GLOBAL
The J.C.R. Notes: The Lincoln Imp’s editorial team believe that as the magazine has been so successful of late, with an absolutely riveting Michaelmas issue, that the magazine can go worldwide, released in all newsagents and on its own brand-new website. To achieve this goal, TheLincolnImp isaskingtheJ.C.R.for£2000.Themotion’sproposeristhedeputyeditor.
QuestionsFromMembers:
1. How many people actually read The Lincoln Imp? The deputy editor declined to give a statistic,butsimplyreplied ‘Alotofgoodpeoplearesayingit’sthebiggestsatiricalmagazinein Lincoln’.
2. Aretheteamawaretheamounttheyareaskingforexceedsthetotalmoneymotionsbudget? No,thedeputyeditorstates,ashedidn’treadtheagendaforthemeetingsentroundbeforethis.
Willthemagazineloseitscharacterasaresultofitsnewglobalmove?No,itwillstillmaintainits core values but will become even better. The editor is making TheLincolnImp great again (hats withthissloganonwillbeavailableafterthemeeting).
TheIndependentChairtheninterrupts,statingitistimetovote.
Result: Motion passes unanimously.
passed. Thiscausesmuchshockamongstthe membersofthe J.C.R.,especiallythe veteran third yearswhohaven’tseenasinglemotionfailintheirentiretimeatLincoln.
Result: Motion fails.
And with that, the meeting concluded. While members initially stayed to chat amongst themselves, they gradually moved towards the exit, all still in shock about the fact a motion finally failed to pass. Despite the seemingly endless repetition of events, they all
know that come Week 8, they will once again gather to participate in Lincoln College’s most exhilarating event. A few eager members stayed behind to try to be the last one remaining, so that they could take home all of the undrunk wine.