Issue No 35
Thurday 12th May 2011
The Independent Trinity Newspaper since 2007
magpie flies the nest 7
Urban OutfittersNick does the 6 Dictionary
Are you ’AVing a laugh? A commentary on our recent referendum
Jack Lewars up to date
So this is Travisty’s inevitable opinion piece on AV. It’s only a week late, which is positively early in this publication. Hey, the editor said to keep it topical, and I wanted the front page. It’s not even really about AV. It’s mainly about other people’s opinions about AV. And that’s because, as someone opposed to AV, I am seriously, seriously pissed off about some of the crap arguments that were used by the ‘No’ campaign. As a result, I’m going to sound off less about the voting system and much more about the people who sounded off about it. If your opinion rested on one or more of these arguments – change it. Change yourself. You stupid, stupid person. First, then, the crap arguments, in ascending order of crapness.
complicated than first past the post. But all the voter has to do is number his/her preferences in order. That’s not that complicated. Personally, if someone isn’t capable to understanding that, I’m not convinced I want them to vote successfully anyway.
It’ll cost a lot So what? Surely the manner in which we elect the people who run our country is worth spending money on, if there’s an obviously superior alternative? As for those arguments that run ‘if we get AV, soldiers will go without bullet-proof vests’ – don’t get me started.
It’ll aid extremist parties No, it won’t. This is straightforwardly not true. Given that it demands 50% of the vote to get a seat, it’ll permanently lock out the BNP in nearly every constituency. OK, in some seats the BNP vel sim. might threaten if they get a lot of second preference votes, but that will only happen in those seats where the BNP threaten under first past the post. And anyway, the importance of second preferences could just as easily work against such parties, even if they top the first preference count.
It’s too complicated Is it really? Frankly, if politicians can get their heads around it, I’m going to back myself. OK, yes, it’s more
Only three other countries use it Again, so what? Once upon a time fewer than three countries had outlawed slavery. If it’s worth doing, I don’t give a monkey’s toot how many countries currently use it. How many countries have a robust human rights record? That’s not an excuse to start kettling peaceful protesters and disproportionately sentencing them if they drop a fire extinguisher...
Continued Overleaf... Kindly sponsored by
2 IN BRief Nick Clegg likes it Are you serious? Are you bloody serious. Even amongst the steaming dungheap of arguments that we’re examining here, this is truly the worst. He likes cheddar too – this shouldn’t herald the rise of Wensleydale. There is only one issue where this kind of argument holds water, and that’s the one that starts ‘Hitler was a vegetarian’. He
Thursday 12th May 2011 travisty.co.uk
wasn’t, of course, but I was always taught that fussy eating shouldn’t be tolerated. So yes – those are the crap arguments against AV. Personally, I voted no because I think that AV will further centralise politics and I thought it would be a bad thing. But if you hear me or anyone else using the above arguments, open fire. It’ll be Darwinism in action.
What we’ll be doing...in exam term
Lucy Lassman - Constantly reminding everyone that I have finished my exams and that they haven’t (read : crying myself to sleep because no-one will go out with me) Rosie Lintott - This term, I will be listening to Joy Division and playing solitaire, with occasional breaks to buy and consume KitKats and booze. Nick Morrison - Revising (eating) my way to exam success (loneliness and obesity) Ben Weisz - Eating whatever Sainsbury’s puts on offer. WHATEVER they put on offer. Jack Lewars – I don’t have time to come up with one-liners. I’ve got my finals coming up. Freya Berry – Oh wait, I DON’T HAVE EXAMS. So, actually, whatever I want really. James A T – Library culture Em Thurston – What I have been doing in the exam period: learning everything that ever happened ever. And even some things that didn’t happen. Just ask me about the moon landings, I dare you. Michael Thornton - Er - exams? Five of them.
Letter from the Editor So, it’s the first Travisty of summer term. The sun is shining, the birds are singing and – oh shit, you guys all have exams. Oh well. Much to my disappointment, no one else wanted to be friends and do Travisty with me, so this is one of only two this term. Fortunately, this one’s an absolute crack-a-lacking corker. With our oodles of spare time, the Travisty team learned to climb buildings, whilst mysteriously swelling to a great size. Except for Jack, who remained handily small enough for me to reference a (slightly) less hirsute King Kong. After only 2 issues, I have also learned to spell Morrison’s name - I even set him on a dictionary article (trust me, it’s funny) to reinforce the point. So, I know you guys will miss us. Deafened by howls of disappointment, I will thus be retiring to the backs for the rest of the foreseeable term. If you need me, I’ll be the one not in the library. But seriously, everyone, good luck.
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Teenage (just about) Mutant Ninja Travisty Writers
James Abbot-Thompson darkspeed champion
I had always considered night climbing something of an apocryphal myth: teams of lithe young men performing death-defying stunts on the roofs of Cambridge colleges. Recently, however, I met a charming young man, local to our picturesque Cambridge. He was a nightclimber. At first, I was horrified that he had the audacity to trespass on our beautiful Grade 1 listed buildings I wanted to twat him in face. However, after he explained that you can spit at people on Market Street, I started to listen up. Night climbing (so called because you climb. At night) has taken place in Cambridge for generations. Night climbers do not use safety
photos by oli crawford
equipment and almost always work in groups. They are particularly active around May Week, when many try to sneak into Balls. My night climber recounted sitting for four hours in a hole in King’s to gain access to the Affair. Just make sure you have an umbrella to hand when it starts raining in Market Street. Ed. – In inspiration of this athletic figure, our Travisty writers decided to dip a surprisingly nimble toe in the proverbial waters. After just a week of practising, we gained access to some of Cambridge’s most exclusive spots. AND there are piccies.
What’s Hot >> adele Fit new album, a place on the Sunday Times Rich List and a cracking appearance on The Graham Norton Show last week. Plus amazing hair. I wanna be from South London. >> daylight Lasting for hours and glorious hours. Much easier for extended pub sessions, tanning and Seasonal Affective Disorder. Rhymes with ‘stay bright’, ‘they might’ and public-school ‘pillow fight’. Too. Much. Excitement.
>> oxeye daisies Those giant weeds swaying in the breeze along the avenue. Too beautiful. And far more romantic than doing a love-calculator. Time to effeuiller la marguerite? >> pogo The YouTube remix sensation has been wheeling out winners for years, so there’s no excuse not to have seen them. A new Lord of the Rings mash-up is pure brilliance, but the keen among you should watch Alice or have a private boogie as Carl breaks it down in Upular. >> doctor who The long wait is over! Or it is now anyway, because nothing really happened in the first episode apart from the doctor dying. Sorry – spoilers...
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Amicable Straight Companion Telling you how it is, sort of
Tally ho! Welcome back all you talented Trinitarians. I know you’ll be as ecstatic as I am when I tell you the wonderful news that Sassy Gay Friend has decided to hop, skip, and jump (emphasis on the skip) over to South Beach or Amsterdam or similar for an indefinite amount of time. Let’s be honest, he’ll be much more at home there - as we all know there are none of ‘that sort’ residing in Cambridge. After all, Brideshead Revisited is just a novel. So from now on its only straight (if you’ll pardon the pun)-talking from yours truly, from here on end. Well what better topic to begin with than how hard I know you’re all working for those looming exams. Or apparently not. Oh fellow Trinity students how you have let me down. Two words. Caesarian Sunday. Now I’m all for a picnic and a Pimms on a Sunday afternoon dahling, but plastic cups, a distinct lack of bodily attire and publicly urinating is really the behaviour of those who shop at the Grafton (or GRAFF-ton as I have been told it is pronounced) Centre. Not from a reputable university such as ours. Now what would our Duke and Duchess say about that? (Avoid any mention of the swastika-wearing, chavvy-named-girlfriend, my hair needs a good brush, younger brother). Never mind what dear Queenie would think. We certainly cannot have the embarrassment of her choosing John’s over us again. 500th anniversary or not. In just as awful news, two fresh-faced, taller than your average, Trinity students have been caught on numerous occasions holding hands. A warning: this is certainly not acceptable behaviour for Cambridge students. We are here to work, write the next War and Peace, find a cure for cancer and become Nobel prize winners - not canoodle on the backs, go for romantic picnics or share a quick - dare I say it - ‘snog’ over breakfast. Public signs of affection will not be tolerated. So please keep your hands, and everything else for that matter, to yourselves. To conclude, I could not sign off without a brief mentioning of the event which led hundreds of streets to be closed, thousands of people to camp overnight in London and for every shop and company to squeeze the life out of Kate & Wills merchandise (the more bizarre the better apparently). I think you will agree it was an overall delightful affair though. There’s nothing like a bit of white lace, slightly confused flower girls and those first few thundering bars of Jerusalem to bring a tear to one’s eye (a pretzel-shaped hat also managed this feat). It did strike me though that unfortunately for Miss Middleton, changing your name or even the pronunciation of it (sorry Hyacinth), will never take away the fact that Mrs. Middleton will always be an air hostess who the Queen will only invite to an hour and a half lunch at the palace a week before the wedding because they ‘did not think it was necessary’ to do it before then. Love conquers all? Perhaps not. And on that note, I think I’ll leave you to go have a spot of tea, plan my wedding to the world’s next eligible bachelor and go count how many horses I have. Toodle pip, ASC x
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Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy rosie lintott
home counties correspondent
I’m currently drinking out of a mug decorated with the faces of Presidents of the United States. Like most heterosexual females, I can’t decide whether Obama or Kennedy is better looking, but they are definitely at the top of the list, followed by Clinton for being a silver fox. James K. Polk looks just like Peter Stringfellow, not a good look for anyone – not even someone who’s been dead for over 150 years. James Buchanan practically is Anthony Hopkins. All of which is very jolly and shallow, but is also characteristic of another habit I’ve nurtured over the years: there is rarely a point at which I am not weirdly in love with an historical figure. On my notice board I have a photocopy of a portrait of Tennyson at 30, creamy of complexion and furrowed of brow, aloof and utterly gorgeous, unrecognisable as the old codger on the wall in Hall. I have a mental list: top of it is clearly John of Gaunt, Richard II’s uncle; then Octavian Caesar, barefoot and breastplated; Ben Jonson, whom I imagine to be shorter and fatter than Shakespeare but more approachable; Alfred the Great, who liked schools and boats; Caravaggio, despite possibly having killed someone. I massively fancy the 11th century King Edmund Ironside, for no other reason than his name. Shah Jahan is pretty cool, as is the Duke of Wellington. The list changes all the time, although John of Gaunt is always on it. Unlike with the portraits of the American Presidents, few of these men (though not exclusively – I’d make an exception for Eleanor of Aquitaine) have photographs, portraits, or even descriptions of their appearances. Tennyson is stunning, but for the most part it isn’t about their looks.
The Travisty Committee
Editor.....................Freya Berry Deputy Editor.............Ben Weisz Features Editor.....Nick Morrison Webmaster.......................Bo Tian Secretary..................Lucy Lassman
Schubert was chubby with funny eyes; if I were to rank the list, he’d probably be higher than Edward IV, who is known to have been tall and rather buff. This makes me wonder first whether I am fundamentally superficial: despite not judging these famous figures by appearance, the list is based upon notions of fanciability when surely ‘shared interests’ ought to be more important. I also wonder whether I mean that, if I had lived at a different point in history, I would have been ‘in love with’ rather than ‘fond of ’ or ‘friends with’ any of them. My interpersonal relationships are almost exclusively platonic – why does the fact that I will never meet these people change this? I suspect it is precisely that. Compiling a list of accessible people one fancies is a) a bit prep-school and b) creepy. A recent compilation of the ‘Top 111 Male Characters of British Literature, In Order of Bangability’ suggests that you can have strange fictional crushes chiefly because the characters exist in our minds and there is no possibility of a crush manifesting itself. Peter Pan was ranked 68th; in real life this would be pederasty, but he’s not real so people can amplify their imagined shared ground with impunity. The Bangability list makes controversial reading: Lear but no Beowulf, Holmes higher than Steerforth. But at 13 is Randolph Henry Ash from A.S. Byatt’s Possession. Ash’s character bears huge resemblance to Tennyson’s. I knew I was onto something.
>> sandwiches in hall With the sudden disappearance of Bacon, Chicken and Avocado, the field of non-soggy, pip-filled, devil-red sandwiches is ever shrinking. To quote facebook, Get That *$!*ing Tomato Out Of My Sandwich. >> rebecca black Poor wee thing. Despite over 130 million hits, her thrilling debut Friday has failed to garner much more than hatred and a spoof Bob Dylan spoof. Experts suggest this may be related to unrealistic depictions of 13-year-olds driving sports cars. Others think the song is a little bit repetitive.
>> punt tours We know Jesus didn’t found Jesus. The guides know Jesus didn’t found Jesus. Mr Asbo the Swan knows Jesus didn’t found Jesus – or he would, if Jesus was even on the Cam. But it isn’t. I would totally boycott the wilful misleading of tourists, if they didn’t walk so slowly on King’s Parade.
>> pub mark-ups One eagle-eyed linguist has noted that a retro-tastic alcoholic beverage costs Em Thurston twice as much in one famous pub as Oli Crawford Lucy Lassman it does from a Cash and Carry. You Michael Thornton don’t need a Nobel Prize to work out these economics.
This Issue’s Contributors Rob Young Natasha Kingham Jack Lewars Kate Pfeffer Nick Morrison Ben Weisz
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Lord of the Lexicon Dr Johnson is so last century
For too long has Oxford dominated the dictionary market; the time has come for Cambridge to step up and establish itself as producer of the nation’s premier wordsmiths. The following is an excerpt from the hotly anticipated first edition of the Cambridge English Dictionary: First class honours (n.) – first class ticket to employment, friendlessness Gyp room (n.) – caravan Boatie (n.) – rower (cf. interesting, attractive, odourless) Merchant of menace (n.) – thespy friend (see ‘Shakespeer’) who demands attendance and praise for his latest play NatSci party (coll. n.) – less anti-Semitic then their forebears but proportionally less interesting πku (n.) – a mathmo poem,/statistically speaking,/is probably crap. Night-climbing (vb.) – sleeping one’s way to the top of the Union, the ADC, CUSU, etc. Cantablet (n.) – potent cocktail of proplus, aspirin and coffee used to unlock the essay potential of Thursday mornings Ents officer (n.) – puts the “ent” in “’Are you going to the ent tonight, my fellow mathematician?’ ‘Nah, I’m staying in to write one of my famous πkus.’” Massive deal (n.) – MASSIVE deal Gown syndrome (n.) – unwarranted superiority felt by Cambridge students over the rest of the world Countdowns (n.) - the passing seconds of silence in a supervision before you look retarded Nick Morris (prop. n.) – famed Travisty writer
Brush up on your manners to free Willy Kate Pfeffer
Not kate middleton
Having been struck by a rampant case of Kate envy (and slight girl crush) last Friday, as I’m sure we secretly all were, this week I decided to embark on the quest of working out how to be a princess, by any means possible. Yet to no avail. Finally, having been subjected to the dregs of what the internet could produce, a lone article on Wikihow sandwiched between ‘How to Act Like a Rich Girl’ and ‘How to Act Like You Care’, I decided to make my own article on the matter, giving all my like-minded peons a plan to snatch that elusive tiara. 1: Manners: A tip for next time you’re in that Wednesday queue, half-naked, probably drugged and desperately hoping that the Pitt club guy pressed up behind you is actually smuggling a very small polo stick into Cindies. Don’t burst into tears and attempt to scale the walls like Spidey-in-heels - crowd surf your way in! At least then those hands up your skirt will actually be getting you somewhere. 2: Dress sense: I hear nipple piercings haven’t been in for a while. Pair with that new bikini you’ve been dying to buy and say you’re going for the ‘California Gurl meets horrific canapé accident’ look. 3: A Prince: preferably with helicopter/noble steed/thousands of inbred relatives on the side. Chivalry isn’t dead, but if you’re having trouble then seduction is key. Hide under a table at formal and offer to penny him somewhere more interesting. 4: A nation: But remember that nobody ever specified which nation. Dazzle some mathmos with those curves and start a cult of your own deep in the Wolfson pipes. If you’re feeling particularly desperate/are actually a mathmo, your minions need not even be among the living. Channel the corpse bride and go find where the bodies are buried. Join those Tim Burton-esque all singing all dancing skeletal souls under the Chapel for Newton’s finest rendition of Rihanna. Sticks and stones may break his bones, but chains and whips excite him. 5: Wheels: A pumpkin and mice did for Cinderella, and any aspiring princess needs some equally mean wheels. Bikes are hazardous in ball gowns, and punts, whilst dignified, tend to leak. And nobody wants a princess with a wet patch. Instead, lash some porters together and hope for some fairy dust. If it works, well, you’ve clearly got magic/powerful hallucinogens on your side. If not, you’ve still probably made The Tab.
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You make me feel like a Natural Scientist....
needs a M.o.t.
Wake up in the morning feeling like Mick Jagger...such a tune. I like my music how I like my organisms – simple, dirty and epidemic in Cindys (yeah, I chose microbiology...). God, last night was MESSY! But why? Hmm...memory...failing...So anyway, with that earworm rattling around my skull like large hadrons in a collider (LOL – save for later), I give myself a quick once-over with the trusty flannel (pits and bits – standard), throw on whatever’s to hand (Rugby trackies, smart shoes and a Biology Olympiad hoodie, as it turns out) and I’m out of the door in ten. EFFICIENCY. Skip breakfast – no time for trivialities like that when you study a Proper Subject™! I’m in the Faculty by nine, and spend several hours listening to the finest scientific minds in the country explaining how to make flatworms having sex sound like Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, followed by a lecture on how to make aforementioned Theory of
Relativity sound like you have to be really clever to understand it. Apply for job at No2AV campaign. Lunchtime beckons, so time for a cheeky flick-through on Facebook – comment indiscriminately at any vaguely political or philosophical debates I see going on (it’s all bollocks anyway, right? As someone who actually knows things about the way the physical world happens to be at the microscopic level, I’m more qualified than most to pontificate about how it ought to be at the level of societies and religions. I literally. Know. Everything). The great thing about being a NatSci at Cambridge is that people expect you to be busy – fantastic when you want to fob off people you don’t particularly want to meet. Even better – you don’t have to appear in the library to convince people that you’re really working! Who needs books when you’ve got a Kindle, anyway?
I think, therefore I am (procrastinating) Michael Thornton a man of trinity
A Natsci on Philosophers
I wake up (or do I?) to the sound of the Natscis and Mathmos scurrying off to early morning lectures, and drag myself to hall for breakfast. As the servery is close to closing, food is scarce and they’re out of eggs; I settle for no sausage with beans and mushrooms. Being the only person wearing pyjamas in hall raises the first deep question of the day: where are all the philosophy students? Lecture time. The lecturer, thinking himself a happening guy (in fact one thought short of sanity), breaks from the syllabus to discuss current events. He witters on, for at least forty minutes, about how one should define fair. I have already spent 3 months trying to understand AV however, and only managed to conclude that counting to 3 is hard, so I spend the time instead pondering the more pertinent, age old conundrum, “what if blue wasn’t blue?” I mean seriously, how fucked up would it be if my blue wasn’t your blue? Like, what if it was red? What colour is the invisible pink unicorn? Falling short of my daily think quota, I watch Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life in which philosophy is defined as “an attempt to construct a viable hypothesis to explain the meaning of life.” To be fair, I don’t really understand this, but I write it down anyway, just in case “What is philosophy?” comes up in my exams. Starred first here I come.
Magnificent? Pious? Rob Young, everybody Rob Young everybody
Leaving the position of Magpiety is a bit like Jennifer Hudson finishing seventh on American Idol. My time in the spotlight has been cruelly cut short, but in a few years I reckon I’ll win an Oscar. Hell, I might even lose a few pounds. But before I revive the role of Effy White in Dreamgirls, it is important to remember the little people, as I look back on the damage I’ve done to Trinity’s oldest society. Somehow, despite coming off the back of a successful run in Edinburgh in the summer, I have managed to get through the year by writing about as much original material as Ellie Goulding. While my fellow comedians stretched the limitations of the bear pun, my act was reduced to anecdotes and questionable impressions as I pranced about the Winstanley like a caricature. I will claim that the nuances of my work are based on the public readings of Charles Dickens, and in part they are, although old Chaz was never engulfed in Christmas wrapping paper for the entertainment of his fans. He also didn’t, as far as my reading has informed me, keep an Australian Giant as a pet. I thank the other members of the society for producing some excellent comedy this year, and for putting up with my often baffling organisational
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skills. Before the society chipped in their ideas (including the classic ‘Make Lewars Laugh’), the Xmas Special was going to be an hour of me doing the Jingle Bell Rock dance from Mean Girls. Natasha and Theo will be a fantastic addition to the history of Magpie and Stump. With her penchant for PVC and his love of posh blazers, some might think they are an odd couple, but they will surely become a more renowned duo than The Macdonald Brothers. Rob Young, everybody.
Magpie has a chick
It would appear that the men and women of Trinity have made a most terrible error in judgement. They’ve only gone and elected, well, a girl, as the next Magpiety. ‘Holy shit!’, I hear you cry, ‘That’s heavy, man.’. Everyone knows that girls aren’t funny, unless you’re laughing at them for leaving the iron on, or burning the meatloaf, or getting pregnant. But, in the long-standing Magpie&Stump tradition, I have decided to be an Absolutely Ridiculously Phenomenally Fucking Huge Deal. That’s right. Thus, henceforth, I am abolishing all laughter from the Winstanley Lecture Theatre, and will be hosting weekly harangues on proto-Feminist gynaecology.
A Dynasty of Doppelgangers: My family and everyone else, ever Em Thurston
History revision has become too much. The apparently ‘doable’ advice of the Faculty to ‘just learn everything that ever happened’ no longer seems like it will get me my 2:1. The library has transformed into a parody of a childish nightmare, as every day I pass the same English student high on Lucozade Sport and Chaucer, the same Natural Scientist gently rocking back and forth and the same (still lost) Mathematician. Owing to some kind of karmic balance however, the royal family of the present appeared to distract me from the royal families of the past, in the form of an entirely constitutionally unprecedented introduction of fresh blood into the regal line. To celebrate the event, my grandmother held a ten in the matin soiree. Parfait!
personal demon in the shape of his dog. He performs similar feats of outrageous controversy: only last week, owing to the imminent Manchester United and City show down, he decorated his entire house with the livery of the red devils, complete with a bottle of Moet in the window for the torment of his light blue neighbours. Naturally, in the wake of City’s resounding victory, the old philosopher was forced to quickly remove said items of impiety, shut the curtains and turn out the lights. Lord knows what the Athenian judicial process would have made of him.
Finally, there is Great Uncle Frank, who reminds absolutely everyone he meets of Jacobean courtier, Sir George Villiers. Yet why, you cry? No, it is not because of his quasi-homosexual attendance on James Perhaps it was being surrounded by this eccentric spectrum of blood VI. Nor yet is it for Parliament’s repeated attempts to impeach him relatives, some of whom I am ‘related to’ in the most tenuous sense, for his monopoly of the patronage system. It is in fact because of his that made me suddenly recognise the undeniable parallels between hatred of the Spanish. Honestly. He really really hates the Spanish. the clan of Queen Bess and my own [Royle?] family. Nana, the And Real Madrid. And the Pope. But mostly the Spanish. undisputed matriarch, reigns supreme above her fellow dignitaries. In the past, she has wielded great power, determining foreign policy However, as the hard hitting coverage of the royal wedding reaches regarding diplomatic relations with Cousin Marge and the exact its climax I, like all unmarried young females in the realm, get line of succession to the Christmas buffet. However, she shows all introspective. Which figure in history am I? Any comparison great discretion in many spheres. She still maintains the power to with Emmeline Pankhurst was out the window the moment that depose our very own David Cameron, the utter republican Auntie I donned that Topshop mini skirt, while unlike Joan of Arc the Julie persists in dating despite of his lack of soul or robust hairline; voices in my head only ever tell me to obey my English overlords. nonetheless, Nana restrains her prerogative, for the sake of the My grandmother’s unrelenting pressure to produce her first great stability of the Thurston polity. grandchild for the continuation of the family line might put me in the sphere of any one of the wives of Henry VIII, but then I can’t stand But then the royal family itself doesn’t contain enough odd bods a man with a beard – especially if it’s ginger. Sadly, my mind turns to adequately describe the bewildering strangeness of my kin. back to the present day, where it is evident that my doppelganger Granddad is best likened to Socrates of arsenic fame, and not must be Kate Middleton, if only due to our shared trait of a fitter only for being old, bloody argumentative and worshiping his own sister with a nicer arse. Oh God. See you in the library.