Travisty 17 (#82)

TRAVISTY #17

May Week edition

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Letter from the Editors

Simon Warrener, Lidija Beric, Timour Antonov, and Shavindra Jayasekera

B A L

introduce Trinity’s favourite newspaper

ouncers better watch out. A hoard of hungered Trinity students are about to unleash their desire for entertainment. Clubs, Bars, Parks, all of them are about to be drowned in the foam of celebration. But all in a spirit of anarchy gently tampered with a respect for tradition.

lcohol. A lot of it. An absurd amount. You shouldn’t partake of course. Soft drinks are available. We would like to remind everyone to drink responsibly. No more than 3 units at any one ball, or we will be having words with Addenbrookes. This message was encouraged by a senior member of college administration. ate like most of your internship applications. But don’t worry you are not alone, we’re late too as Travisty finally celebrates Easter (Lidija p.7). Otherwise it is important to arrive fashionably late to all of your social engagements, otherwise people wouldn’t be aware how busy you are. With Travisty’s advice you’ll be well on your way to a perfect May Week, just make sure you know when entries to the Ball close

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ove: hey, maybe you’ll find it this time! Every potential target is nice and relaxed, so give it your best shot. But jokes apart, what better time for a kiss than under the ephemeral flames of the Trinity fireworks? Or satisfy your needs for love by reading our wonderful, wonderful articles. Enjoy the issue.

The Four Socialites Simon Warrener Simon has taken over around here. His new regime will be one of overflowing issues, generous contests, and funny jokes. No leader has ever let us down before.

Shavindra Jayekesera

Timour A ntanov Timour originally planned to include serious writing in Travisty. He ended up writing about the curse of Henry VIII, so not much has changed there.

Lidija Beric Completing the editorial team is Lidija, who is known for her poetry about Easter. In June.

Something is not quite right.

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Shavindra is our new ethics editor, presenting himself, in a suit, as one of the people. With questionable ethics and questionable editorial skills we are sure he will fit in around here, however.

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In This Issue

Meet the creative team behind this week’s issue 2

Letter from the Editors Travisty Editors

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This Issue’s Contributors Travisty Editors

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The Bees Are Dying

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Great Court Sniper protests at May Ball Pay Joshua Robey A Guide to Eating with Just Forks Yuta Tsuchiya

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Muhammad Manji

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Easter Poems

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Cryptic Crossword

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Exams Replaced with Battle Royales Simon Warrener

Lidija Beric Agnijo Banerjee

10 Trinity May Ball Delayed Harry Metrebian 11 Things you can buy instead of a may ball ticket Shavindvra Jayakesera Cocktail of the Week Simon Warrener 12 St John's revoke Fellowship offer Alexander Chamberlain 13 May Ball Revolution

Travisty Editors

18 Horoscopes Muhammad Manji and Alexander Chamberlain

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his

cryptic

H arry Metrebian Is not on the May Ball committee.

Joshua Robey Continues his exclusive professional relationship with the Great Court sniper.

Yuta Tsuchiya Recently negotiated our new sponsorship with the fork lobby.

A lexander Chamberlain Rejected a fellowship offer from St John's.

Olivia Horne Has not been seen since finishing her prelim exams.

Timour Antanov

16 The Final Trinity May Ball Simon Warrener 17 Competition

Agnijo Banerjee Once more proves crossword skills.

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Muhammad M anji Has secured a placement in his backup employment plan of bee-keeping.

The Bees are Dying Muhammad Manji takes action on the environment You might think I’m going to try to be funny right now, but I actually want to talk about a serious topic.

I don’t like people who kill bees.

It’s an awful thing to do, they’re just flying around trying to be friendly and we’re brutally murdering them! Just in the past 20 years there’s been an immense decline in the global bee population, and this has led to their habitat being taken over by their evil twins - the wasps. Bees are lovely, friendly, misunderstood, but wasps however, are pure evil. You can share a room with a bee, but not a wasp, never a wasp. Part of the problem with wasps is that they never die, no matter how many times you hit them.

Of course, by wasps I mean White Anglo-Saxon Protestants. Oh, you thought I means wasps as in insects? There isn’t much difference to be honest, they both operate in colonies.

I don’t actually like honey. My mum never believed me when I used to say that, “How could you dislike something made out of pure goodness.” I can see a few nods of agreement in the audience, honey is perfect right? God’s semen? WRONG. Honey is a scam, invented to trick bees into giving up their precious free time to serve ‘the man’.

The honey industry is a façade, a capitalist ruse invented to try and increase employment in the bee community. Good for nothing bees, they’re only good at one thing. Imagine being a working-class bee, going through bee school, working your socks off and graduating with a mid-2.1, and then you go to a careers fair to start job hunting and its literally the honey aisle in Morrisons. You start a 9-5 job at a honey factory, come home after a particularly long day at work and ask your partner what’s for dinner “oh it’s honey again, honey”. You sigh as you tuck into another mouthful of the gooey repulsive mush in front of you. You get a honeycomb piece stuck in your teeth.

Eventually people start getting fed up of honey, but the bee community doesn’t produce anything else, so a famine starts. There are riots in the streets. Demand falls, uncertainty rises. Honey factories are looted, everyone loses their jobs. Unemployment rises to a record 100%. They hit a bee-cession.

On another note, in the last year alone bees have contributed almost £2 billion to the UK economy. That means, according to our current government, they’re more valuable than junior doctors! Expect to see hospitals being replaced by apiaries in the next few years. The sting of privatisation.

My first true friend was a bee. It was when I had just moved to the UK and was struggling to settle in. He was called Buzz. And I know what you’re thinking, this sounds awfully like the plot of the bee movie, but it was nothing like that I swear, we were just friends. The mean kids at school used to tease me for having a bee friend. Why don’t you talk to people your own age, they said? To tell you the truth it was the only B I got at school. I was an A-star student. No that’s a lie I got lots of Bs. When my mum read out my grade sheet it sounded like a truck reversing. It was less funny when she later got hit by a truck chasing me down the street with a sandal.

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Great Court Sniper Protests at Low May Ball Pay Joshua Robey continues his investigation into College's high caliber affairs After a turbulent year, the resident Great Court Sniper, Reverend Hazel Ashley, has voiced her protests against the low pay offered to her for work at the upcoming May Ball.

Despite her recent ordination and frequent chapel services – usually brisk yet detailed diatribes on the purported Biblical support for just war – Ashley has recently admitted to experiencing a crisis of faith.

Rumour has it that Ashley, after mistakenly watching the start of a TED talk on Nietzsche, realised that the individualistic disregard for compassion embodied in the German thinker’s atheism matched entirely with her own belief in humans’ essential disposability. In a rare candid moment, Reverend Ashley revealed that her religious doubts are being currently synthesised into a folk-grime album about the concept of godlessness.

In Ashley’s darkest moments, she has considered going further, and giving up her role entirely, performing the ritual form of resignation that has spelled the end of the last eighteen Great Court snipers. Yet compounding her plight is the tragic fact that Ashley simply lacks the arm-reach required to turn a sniper rifle on herself, as tradition dictates. To go through with such an act, Ashley would require some form of assistance which she is personally set against. ‘The college outsources its sniping work to me and me alone,’ Ashley told us. ‘To ask someone else to take my life for me would represent a dereliction of duty of the highest order.’

The college, of course, disputes Ashley’s gloss on events, saying that Ashley is lucky to be being paid at all.

Until recently, the college has taken on ‘volunteer’ May Ball clean-up staff. Instead of remuneration, they were rewarded by the tantalising prospect of being able to buy a ticket for the next one, at which last year’s workers could look down upon the new cohort, revelling in their chance to experience a reversal of the Hegelian master-slave dialectic.

Though some churlish readers may feel that refusing to pay even the living wage at a college with £2.25bn in assets is unfair, they should at least take comfort that the savings are being passed on to the consumer.

After all, this year’s ‘access tickets’ represent a new peak of affordability. At £157.50 per head, this means a giddying, vertigo-inducing, head-spinning, and ever-so-slightly nauseating £15 per student discount, whose announcement brought triumphant tears of joy to students’ eyes, both at the unparalleled charitable intentions and from the wealthiest Trinity members, delighted that this desultory reduction would price others out, ensuring their own application’s success.

Where many colleges choose abstract themes for their May Balls – examples include the four seasons, trees, and the Chernobyl disaster – Trinity’s is the comparatively simple theme of ‘Privilege’. This is hardly a surprising break from recent years, in which May Ball themes have included ‘Daddy’s Money and how to spend it’, ‘Shitting on the poor from a height’ (a comprehensive demonstration of trickle-down economics in practice) and ‘Things you wouldn’t want to come out once you’re in government’.

Reverend Ashley, however, has not been seen for almost two weeks, when a shadowy figure was seen burning an effigy of Kierkegaard on the Backs, whilst polishing a sniper rifle and weeping. If she is not found soon, then the May Ball could be under considerable threat. The Ball is a peak time for the sniper, shots timed to coincide with the £15,000 worth of fireworks allowing discreet executions that minimise public panic.

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A Guide to Eating with Just Forks Yuta Tsuchiya asks: it was good enough for Poseidon, why not for you too?

On a warm Sunday morning, you pull yourself out of your long nights’ sleep so that you can enjoy the luxury of a lazy brunch, Travisty in hand. All is well, you are happy with the size of the bacon rasher you got, and pancakes are superior to waffles. In hall, you miraculously find a seat, then get up to collect utensils and water. Out of nowhere, disaster strikes! You find that all the spoons and knives have magically disappeared.

(Insert dramatic brass sound effect.)

Above is an account of no-one ever; who has time for early bed on a Saturday night when the Trinity Boardgaming Society (Every Saturday 7:30pm Burrell’s Field Common Room) is on? Nonetheless, any ecologically minded student can see that using one fork is better for our planet than a fork, a knife, a spoon, another spoon for dessert, etc. (Similar to how all good students know showering once a fortnight and washing clothes once a term is the easiest way into heaven [possibly also the fastest].) So here is a quick guide on becoming the ultimate BFOC (biggest fork on campus).

Easy

The sorts of dishes you only need the muscle and bone forks your parents gave you—like burgers. Unless you have decided to imitate a certain billionaire in a certain elliptical Office, pizzas should also be on this list.

Conveniently, the main side dish to burgers and pizzas are fries, and both the straight and curly versions are consumable 100% utensil free. On an unrelated topic, here is your friendly reminder that washing your hands before eating is generally a good idea.

Medium

The sorts of dishes where it is ‘normal’ to just use a fork. Eggs, salads and pasta make this list (and don’t try to tell me the ‘proper way’ to eat spaghetti is with a spoon—spaghetti was clearly designed to wrap around the thin fork tines, and you’ll be answering to the Spaghetti Monster for blasphemy should you disagree). I don’t really know what to say, really. Use a fork.

Hard

The sorts of dishes the weak use their fancy ‘knives’ to ‘cut into smaller pieces’. However, true BFOCs know that no meat is too thick for the almighty fork. For example, for your regular sized steak you have the option of just eating it in one go. If your mouth is not large enough for such feats, offer half of the steak to your friend. (On an unrelated note, the author is always available to accept free half-steaks.) If friends are not available, or if they were sufficiently creeped out by above and have become unavailable, just offer it to the stranger sitting next to you! Hall is where friendships grow and new ones are born, possibly from the exchange of steaks. Unless the stranger is vegetarian. Then don’t.

Soup

Aside from the obvious difficulty in this, there is no difficulty in this. Just combine several forks by meshing their tines, in effect forming a large spoon. The moral of the story is that when one is not enough, teaming up with friends can be the key. Except in reality the soup will leak rather quickly from your handmade spoon, so one must be quick. Luckily there are now multiple handles to the spoon, making dipping into the soup and into one’s mouth a much more palatable task. The patient reader can do it with one fork if they so wish to—you see, most forks are curved, and therefore have some small volume it can carry (approximately 0.1ml) (Also some surface tension … something, something … physics magic). So, if the sole fork is your path, you can sip away, slowly making your way through the soup—evaporation will be your friend. That is, until the waiters kick you out because they need to set up for a formal or something.

This article was sponsored by buyafork.com.

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Easter Prayers Lidija Beric offers a sermon to take us through trying times

‘O Trinity’s stakeholders, we thank thee on this glorious Easter morn For bestowing upon us hundreds in funds For enrichment that must strictly not be academic-borne, Then blessing us with exams and protecting us from any (more) fun.

Not to mention sharing the warmth of thine unseen presence, In this miraculous season of work that’s endless, Investing ever more in-not Sainsbury’s (our job) — but Tesco, As the flowers and the trees emerge from winter’s slumber (Just as Winter’s leaving) and the punts come out to play, to taunt us in our revising with relaxing that must wait.’

And to be inclusive, for those celebrating Spring, I wish a you a very secular season and lots of fun trick-or-treating! (or Guy Fawkes burning, or premature May balling or however you laïque lot amuse yourselves at this Whitsuntide.)

Happy Pesach to we (few) Jews.

Hope you survived the spring clean!

And finally, to anyone who I may not have addressed: May all your prayers be answered, Especially those of first-class awards From a single night of candlelit revision, So that you can actually profit from this season Go out punting and still be successful!

(Or at least as successful as the Mephistophelean Tesco-Trinity deal with the devil, To whom we must be grateful For blessing us with the steakholders Who keep our meat-and vegan alternatives-on the table!)

Bonus: Pre-exam Prayers (to be recited precisely twenty seconds before entry to exam hall: an absolute, resolute New-Age pre-requisite.)

‘O Holy Trinity, I very much like the notion that herein lies the season of resurrection for I am in stringent need of starting afresh with this irrefrangible knowledge of being doomed to Unsuccess!’

‘Renouncing revision for lent transformed me, And so methinks I might just about, Essay to even longer do without…

My mother and father will be so proud!

And yet mefears for what should happen now…

(Shame I can’t say the same about chocolate. But then again, they’re called eggs. Not chocolate.)’

Carpe Diem.

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Cryptic Crossword Agnijo Banerjee’s brunch brainteaser

Email smw86@cam.ac.uk with the crossword answers by 23:59 on Sunday 14th July to be in with a shot of winning the prize. The winner will be drawn at random from all completed solutions.

Prize: Slice of fudge & a signed copy of this week’s issue.

The winner will be announced in the next issue.

Last issue’s winner: James Clarke

Get Involved Like what you’ve read?

Join the team.

Email: smw86@cam.ac.uk

Across

1 Bizarre gene in creature (11) 7 Idiot doctor surrounded by pair (5) 10 German city has polar opposites, reportedly (5) 11 Unknown chaps travel in clean submarine (11) 12 Childish leader kidnaps Master at University (8) 13 Man marrying women on islands (8) 14,27 Down Just join a quiz show (4,7) 15 Signs some women see (5) 18 City leader dressing Romeo (5) 21 Altering process is crucial (8) 23 Hard bit forms around copper plaque (8) 24 Woman takes on bird (5) 25 Weaving only new fibre (5) 27 Shoe made from cold piece of wood (4) 29 Real Hustle on island (8) 31 They play in pits, as musicians (8) 33 Virtue - bonus obtained from being modest (11) 34 Call up to cancel without opening (5) 35 Asparagus stem with chopped pears (5) 36 Now I trust a jury’s observation (11)

Down 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

8 9

16 17 19 20 22

25 26 27 28 30

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Theresa’s tautology - Spooner has lost UK citizenship (6) Men stir stew, cooking in houses (11) Long article with Glyn, distraught (7) Ban, therefore restricting entrepreneur (7) In Athens, I have a small amount (4) Springs said to be decent guys (7) Orchid, surprisingly, given to manager, in black and white, perhaps? (9) Sulked like a vehicle (5) Playing against eastern rosters subject to excessive tension (10) Way to be cloudy (5) Chip in a chosen sample (5) Gold, perhaps, where 6 Down found (11) Dark suit required in places of entertainment (9) Power source for endless energy conversion on a Devon hill (10) Democrats might make unsuitable call (2,5) Innocence raised, and French bottled water (7) See 14 Across A fragrance is rising (6) Used for hanging glasses, in everywhere except the West (5) Cut the two of diamonds (4) Agnijo Banerjee with Josh Payne and Andrew Sellek

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Exams Replaced with Subject ‘Battle Royales’ Simon Warrener reports as Cambridge's modernisation drive continues “As part of our mission to remain at the pinnacle of educational attainment, it is vital that we are able to connect with everyone, no matter their age, background, or maturity,” said an eminent professor upon being asked for comment on the most recent, shocking turn in the never-ending saga of Tripos reform. “This latest change will ensure that all students, regardless of whether they went to Eton or Erangel School, are on a level playing field.”

Leaks sourced from the Twitter accounts of disgruntled academics, who have called this scheme ‘barbarous’, ‘of no intellectual challenge whatsoever’ and ‘trivial even for a ten year old’, show that the traditional exam structure, which we are depressingly all too familiar with, would be replaced with fights to the death across the City of Cambridge. Under the new proposals each student sitting the examination would be able to parachute from a plane to land in a location of their choice within the city limits. Traditional Battle Royales, and those introduced by recent reforms in many red-brick universities, have students scavenge for prepositioned weapons within an ever-shrinking portion of the city. However, in order to remain a cut above these other universities, the Chancellor has decreed that each student shall drop armed with a weapon of their choice, providing it is based on the subject that they study.

In a press release on the matter he said: “The new system which we have developed will ensure that every student has an equal chance to do as well in their exams as they possibly can do. This will also allow students to fully immerse themselves in their subjects, in a way that the artificial and sterile examination system did not.”

Several students have responded eagerly to the new changes. A historian has hawked himself halberds, hoping to harpoon hopeless, hysteric, hated hostiles. Mathematicians have been observed sharpening their compasses. The few land economists have contacted their fathers and arranged for delivery of their shotguns to college grounds in a move some have called unsporting. Computer scientists have allegedly hacked into the plane’s navigational software to reroute it over Newnham and Murray Edwards, we at Travisty are sure this is connected to some grand strategy they have devised. Several phys-natscis have been observed smuggling weapons-grade uranium into college; we are sure this is for peaceful, energy producing purposes.

We are excited to hear your feedback on this important change to the curriculum, please email us at budgetcuts@examinationsoffice.cam.ac.uk.

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Trinity May Ball Delayed Until October Harry Metrebian has uncovered troubling rumours In a controversial move, the organisers of the 2019 Trinity May Ball have decided that it will probably not be held until 31 October, as they have not yet managed to book a headline act. This is the second time the ball has been delayed: it was originally meant to be held in May, but before tickets were released it was moved to 17 June in order to avoid a clash with the Game of Thrones finale.

In a long statement, the May Ball Presidents, Kyle Hanson and Tilly West, explained that they had been in negotiations with the Swedish rock band Europe. The band agreed to headline the Ball but made it clear that they would not play their 1986 hit The Final Countdown. Hanson and West, however, insisted that they perform the song, telling them that a set without The Final Countdown would be like “a Travisty issue without an article by Manji”. This did not have the intended effect: the band told Hanson and West that Travisty “would be better without any articles at all, and while they’re at it they should ditch the horoscopes too — they need a real astronomer or whatever they’re called.”

As a result, Hanson and West reluctantly decided to cancel Europe’s set. This left them in limbo with less than two months to go until the Ball. Since it is unlikely that they will find a replacement headliner in time, they are now making arrangements to hold the Ball in Michaelmas instead. They still claim that they would prefer it to go ahead on 17 June, but in private they accept this will not be possible, as holding the Ball without a headline act would be disastrous for the long-term future of the Ball.

The decision has produced a wave of anger amongst Trinity students at a level not seen since the demise of free tea and coffee in Hall two years ago. One third-year HSPS student, who refused to be named, told Travisty: “This is an absolute disgrace. I bought tickets for 17 June, and I want to go to the Ball on 17 June. I’ll have graduated by October and I won’t be free then, so if they do hold it then, I bloody well hope I get my money back!” He also wondered whether it would be possible to force Hanson and West out: “They’ve only ever acted in their own interests. I bet most people don’t watch the headline act anyway — my friends and I never have.”

The reaction of fellows to the change of date has been one of bemusement. One said that he had stopped caring about the ball long ago.

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Things you Can Buy Instead of a May Ball Ticket Shavindra Jayakesera does the maths so you don't have to Students are a cheap folk, and this is something that the May Ball committee seemingly forget every year when they charge us £345 for a ticket to the Trinity May Ball. However, the money-minded amongst you understand that your money can go to many other worthy causes: • 58 bottles of Cava – Make sure to douse all your friends with champagne after their last exam. They will thank you for your sticky clothes later I’m sure.

• 173 packs of tissues – When exams don’t go as planned and you need let those tears out.

The more you think about it the more you cry.

• 86 tubs of Ben and Jerry’s – They say food is the best source of comfort. You might regret it later, but nothing beats the sweet, sweet taste of cookie dough.

• 5 sets of blackout curtains – Now exams are finished you can finally enter a state of hibernation. Don’t let the sun dictate your sleep cycle.

• 138 cups of coffee – What started of as a way to stay awake during all those all-nighters has become a full-blown caffeine addiction. You need at least 12 cups a day to keep the withdrawal symptoms at bay.

• 250 Jägerbombs – Make up for all those nights where you had to stop yourself from drinking during exam term

• 1 donation to May Week Alternative – Whilst we in Cambridge are celebrating the end of our exams, we can give people around the world a reason to be happy by donating.

Ingredients

10 Oxbridge Graduates (Approx)

Cocktail of the Week

Tories in a Tumbler Brought to you by the Cabinet

several helpings of cocaine or opium to taste 10 000 bottles of champagne 1 Brexit

Method

1. Gather Oxbridge graduates

2. Distribute drugs conservatively 3. Slowly mix in half champagne

4. Ask local pensioners thier thoughts

5. Add remaining champagne while staring at brexit 6. Bottoms up

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St John’s Revoke Fellowship Offer Alexander Chamberlain has the scoop on the College's latest scandal In November last year, Professor C. Versial visited Cambridge as part of a book-tour, promoting his latest work, 12 Rules for Cooking Lobsters. While visiting, he arranged to speak to a variety of Cambridge academics, mostly from the School of Cuisine. He expressed interest in working more closely with the University, and, a few months later, was offered a visiting fellowship at St John’s for Michaelmas 2019.

However, a photograph recently came to light showing Professor Versial posing next to a man wearing a t-shirt reading: I’d rather go to Oxford than St John’s. A few days later, St John’s posted on their official Twitter account that they would be revoking the offer: “Professor Versial requested a visiting fellowship at St John’s College, and an initial offer has been rescinded after a further review.”

When Travisty reached out for comment, Professor Versial said, “They claim to be an institution of intellectual discussion and free speech, but actions speak louder than words, do they not? Maybe I should heed the advice on the incriminating t-shirt and travel down to Oxfordshire.”

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May Ball Revolution Timour Antanov recounts a tale most dire...

I sat down squat on my chair to write of high and elevated things. The kind of things that make you wonder, why did half of humanity pour their milk over their cereals, and the other… the other just commits a crime at every breakfast? Yes, the statistic is purely invented. But so is this article. So, I sat down squat on my chair with an ugly desire to debate about the merits of various cereal and milk stratifications, when BANG. (Yes, couldn’t the onomatopoeia be more clichéd – blame it on the practice of “BANGING” on doors, not me.) The entire foundations of the Wolfson Building shook with stony dread – alright I may be overdoing, it was only my door, someone had banged *it* rather than on it – nonetheless it was loud. I rushed to open.

An entity covered in blue paint, with two yellow and one central red stripe – with an overall appearance of a very, very, very mouldy French cheese – shouted in my face, “Come compatriot Trinitarian, it is grand time for you to join the revolution!”

I was as astounded as you are right now: why would a myrtle-bummed maniac bang on my door, to ask me such a thing? I politely, with as much attention as a man stricken with terror can give, slammed the door on his face, applying all my politeness and my body weight into keeping it shut, as the blue-breasted bandit endlessly pounded *it* (and not on it), yelling the ob-

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scure formula: “May Ball week is Revolution week!”. My mind, you can imagine, was somewhat dulled by the deafening incantations of said apparition – and it is only when the angry palms stopped spanking my poor door, and the footsteps of the brute receded in the sightless darkness, that I could regain my calm and – May ball! Of course, how could I have forgotten! This sickly tradition, taking its roots from the dark recesses of Time’s hindquarters, passed on with each generation of adulating followers! May Ball – two words that strike terror when positioned side by side, like a sexagenarian couple smoking pot in their underwear! Oh, May Ball and the May Ball Revolution…What?

You do not know what I mean?

Why, why, forgive me, I was too preoccupied with my milk and cereals to explain the origins of this gruesome practice. It all began, the mysterious Elders called “Graduate Students” told me, ages ago, yes, back when people used to think that “yeeting” was fashionable, and the show called Game of Thrones had officially become the scapegoat for its angry fanbases’ unfulfilling lives.

Back in the days – or so the Elders told me, communing around the hearth in the Juicy Arse (once called the JCR) – May Ball was a fairly inoffensive practice, being only murderous insofar as it painfully sucked out the contents of the students’ bank accounts. Trinity was always

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buzzing with excitement and pheromones at this time of the year. Champagne-fuelled flourishes accompanied strange dances, as all the students’ repressed behaviour came out with the alcohol. Yet that year, the clouds loured heavy upon the musical revelry in Great Court. A wind was blowing – yes, that kind of ominous, gloomy wind. Underground tensions had already started to ferment following a Camfess debating the uses of White Tie versus Black Tie, and the mass of drunken students slowly divided into the two distinguishable camps. First, there was shouting: “Black Ties are for losers who can’t afford White Ties!” “White Ties are pompous and outdated, down with the aristocracy!”. Then, the numerous mob of White Ties began closing in on the fiercely resistant Black Ties: bottles were thrown, landing harmlessly in the nurturing arms of students, who drank from the bowels of their glass children. At last, somebody sneezed – this was the signal for the charge. A roar of protest and exhilaration issued from the clashing groups who, being too well-educated to engage in a fist fight, instead slapped each other’s behinds with their ties. Bowties were swung like slingshots: amidst the “Ow!” and “Stop, it was 50 pounds!’” of the battle, a towering Black Tie was brought down by a courageous White Tie half his size: Biblical undertones, some would say. The Porters came rushing in, but it was

too late: the battle had reached an unseen scale. Isolated skirmishes of screams and laughter issued from every corridor, nook and cranny of Trinity College.

A deafening mechanic whirr paused the fighting for an instant. Infuriated by the cost of cleaning up the mess, a Fellow ran down to his secret emergency hideout and come back covered in a full robotic suit, painted in an outrageous neon pink. “Nobody’s subtracting that from my wine allowance!” He shouted, as from within the two turbo-powered arms, mysterious missiles shot out with a heavy thunk.

They exploded on the glistening grass, wet with champagne and the slobber of enemies: more champagne! The crafty officer of peace and justice had charged their cartridges with the mellifluous liquid and added enough knockout drops to fell a dabbing elephant; let alone a skinny student.

The champagne now flowed so thick it threatened to flood Great Court; black-suited figures were climbing the east walls, sniggering malevolently – an invasion from Saint John’s! Some of the anaesthetics had begun to take effect; units of Trinity suits collapsed on the ground, unable to move, paralysed into a paradisiac drowsiness that would only wear off the following day in an earth-cracking headache. Yet among the drunken fighting and the hedonistic yells, among the drenched remains of the lawns, and the frenzied Fellow in his pink robosuit, there stood a lonely figure – a First Year English Student, who did not partake in the general fun.

He had a bigger design planted firmly in his mind, and this seemed like the perfect occasion to carry it out. As he strode through the posh chaos of tie-whipping and drinking, walking with assured steps towards the Hall, a shadow of a smile, akin to that of the Mona Lisa, drew itself upon his lips. It was he who had spurned the rivalry between Black Tie and White Tie by writing the explosive Camfession; he, who had supplied the resentful Fellow with the plans to construct the pink robosuit; he, who had purchased the endless supply of champagne bottles. He now stood before the staircase to the hall, guarded by three rows of kitchen staff tasked to protect the portrait of Henry VIII at all costs. The robosuit Fellow, slightly affected by his own champagne cartridges, came crashing into the organised columns, scoring an impressive strike on the bowling batch of staff. This provided the ideal distraction for our mysterious hero to slide past the confusion and into the dim-lit hall. The oppressive silence of the huge room, usually animated with the drone of voices and the clatter of cutlery on cheap plates, struck a note of hesitation in the Student’s heart.

He had already gone so far; he must continue. Walking unhurriedly along the empty tables, under the disapproving glare of the former Trinity Masters and Lord Byron’s playful wink, his foot stopped an inch short of the high table. His eyes, still focused inwards, as he imagined the outcome of the battle amidst the din of distant voices, now slowly lifted from the ground and calmly

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met those of his enemy. Henry, fixated in all his double-chinned Tudor splendour on the crinkly canvas, stared back. He had always seemed too life-like to be contained within the painting; or perhaps, his majestic proportions simply slipped out of any medium which tried to contain them. The Student marched forward, circling around the tables, still meeting the gaze of his illustrious Founder. He was now right beneath Henry’s opulent pantaloons. Defying all laws of perspective, the fat King’s eyes still burned right back at the Students’.

It was a staredown across centuries; across social barriers; across the realms of Reason and Logic.

The lamps themselves, projecting ghastly shadows, flickered and flinched away from the intensity of the scene. The Student, whose face was still bathed in giocund serenity, lifted his arm towards the monarch’s breeches. The hall thundered open: it was the staff soldiers who had managed to regroup, and now encircled the lonely figure on the high table from all sides. The Student’s arm had reached its objective. The faces of the staff legion paled with fear, and a dozen voices shouted in harmonious anguish as the Student, beaming with triumph, tickled Henry’s sword.

The scratch of finger against canvas, of flesh against paper, of hand against sword, was like the Moan of all the souls brought howling back from Hell. Henry’s mouth twitched in agony, and bellowing, the fat form detached itself from its papery prison, and fluttered like an oversize moth in the air.

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“WHO DARETH TICKLE THE SWORD OF HENRY OF THE HOUSE TARGARYEN, EIGHTH OF HIS NAME, THE UNBURNT FAT, QUEEN OF THE SANDALS, THE RHOYNAR AND –” Henry’s ghost stopped mid-sentence, as he realised, from the empty stares he was receiving, that something had gone awfully wrong: “DAMN THEE ALL, THOU WRETCHED, POOP-DRENCHED, UNGRATEFUL VILLAINS! I WILL NOT ALLOW A COMMONER TO TICKLE MY AAAAAAH–”

The oversized phantom was again cut off in the middle of his utterance, this time in a strange mixture of pain and pleasure, by the sneaky manoeuvre of the Student, who, using the King’s distracted bellowing, snuck right under his breeches, climbed on top of a table and, jumping, grabbed the monarch’s enormous, ghostly sword. The Student mercilessly tickled the phallic protrusion: Henry slobbered at the mouth and yelled inordinate curses. With one final scream, the oversized ghost flew to the center of the room, threw off the Student who landed with a crash on the floor and, spreading out his blotted limbs in the shape of Ixion’s wheel, dissolved with a BANG in the air.

It was the same BANG, in fact, that caught me by surprise as I was thinking about milk and cereal at my lonely desk. This BANG wasn’t just any BANG, but one big BANGER of a BANG that caused a bunch of unprotected BANGING. But back to the story. When everyone

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came back to their senses and the foul smell of Tudor breath dissipated in the sunlit hall, it was as if a load had fallen from the backs of every Trinity member: student, staff, Porter and Fellow confounded.

“The curse of Henry VIII is dispelled! Hurray!”. The Student’s radiant voice echoed through the hall, and flew outside, to lodge itself reassuringly inside the ear of every single combatant. A sigh of relief blew through the old walls, now glistening anew, washed by the June champagne showers. Then a hearty cheer, coming from one breast, cracked the old barriers of spite, and mingled all in its warm embrace: “Hurray for the students! Hurray for the Porters! Hurray for the staff! Hurray for the Fellows!”.

And the Master, suddenly appearing from the window of his lodge clad in a wizard-like robe, sparked the real celebration by crying out, “Hurray for Trinity!”.

At his words, the Black Ties and the White Ties, the Porters and the staff, the Fellow in his pink robosuit, all ran toward each other and smothered one another in hugs, kisses and sobs. All was Love, Peace, and a tiny bit of cheerful Drunkenness. The mysterious Student with the Mona-Lisian smile had disappeared, dissolving into fin air, as if he had become the new guardian spirit of Trinity.

The next day, the college happily announced a new policy. In remembrance of this glorious event, Trinity May Ball week was always to be celebrated as Revolution week – when one brave student, whose name re-

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mains unknown, battled the evil ghost of Henry VIII, and lifted off a curse that was hanging over the souls of every Trinitarian.

Nobody knew the exact nature of the curse: some said it was the unbearable pressure of the exams; others argued that there was something in the formal wine; all agreed that they were better off without it. Henceforth, this Curse, whatever its true nature, was to be released each year in a hedonistic recreation of the original events. Everyone thought it was a good idea; everyone cheered, and everyone drank. But in the shadows, lurking, a pair of bloated, yellow eyes observed the scene, and in the hearts of all the listeners, the joy was pricked by a tiny bit of sorrow. It was the sorrow, I believe, of growing up; the sorrow of realising that, with every year, their time in Trinity was slowly coming to an end. Yet it was a cheerful sorrow, like a cloud dappled in sunshine; for every year, the ghost of all their mistakes and regrets could be ousted in a forgiving celebration of their own youth, mortality and BANG!

What, again! I’m very sorry to interrupt my tale, denying you the possibility of satisfying closure; it’s those blue-bummed rascals knocking at my door! They just won’t leave me alone, and I’m afraid it’s that time of the year again: May Ball Revolution week! Stay safe dear fellas, and be sure to fight the overweight curse of Henry Tudor!

Yours Truly,

One mysterious, Mona-Lisian English Student

The Final Trinity May Ball Simon Warrener hears of a dystopian future “Oh, so you want to hear the tale of the lost College?” The badly scarred man leaned back in his chair. “Get yourself a drink, I don’t tell this tale often… Once there were thirty-one Colleges in Cambridge, not just thirty, and there was one that stood above them all, proud and imperial in its majesty.”

“Thirty-one, don’t be absurd, why would there be such an awkward number,” a voice from the gathered crowd spoke up. He was quickly hushed by the others, hisses drowning out any further protest. The scarred man resumed: “No-one expected it to get as bad as it did. In hindsight the May Ball committee’s suggestion to recreate the Gunpowder Plot should have been a red flag, not to mention the planned Civil War re-enactment.

While these were shot down under the watchful eyes of the Dean, the Committee had something else up their sleeve.

The May Ball started just as any other, the champagne flowing freely and the Backs alive to the sound of music. The innocent attendees of the Ball were partying, blissfully unaware as a last-minute operation by a crack team of Porters thwarted a schismatic faction (sources refer to them as the ‘Thomas Neville Society’) of the committee’s plan by intercepting a submarine bringing dozens of barrels of gunpowder up the Cam from King’s. While later events make facts hard to come by, it has been heard that these barrels were assembled into a copy of the FREE OBJECT before being lit.

The explosion from this would coincide with the first reports of the evening’s troubles, but eyewitnesses also report fireworks being fired from Trinity Hall as being respon-

sible for the King’s Great Backs fire. Later events, in my rather professional opinion, prove the second theory to be correct.

Accounts from the survivors show that few at the Trinity Ball were concerned by this fire, the calamity befalling the lesser college of minor import when compared to the array of fine wines and deserts that were available for sampling. As couples, both newly consecrated and long-standing, drifted off to the quieter corners of the Ball the left-behind bachelors engaged in ever more foolish drunken stunts attempting to woo the rapidly decreasing pool of available companions. While it is certain that the signs were there, none noticed that this would all be in vain until far too late.

With the merrily burning fire on King’s Backs edging closer members of the committee decided to break out the main event early in order to keep the party-goers distracted.

A spire was unveiled in the centre of the ball, a jet-black pinnacle soaring hundreds of feet above the assembled guests. Cladding this spire in arrayed spirals was the most impressive pyrotechnics display known to man, for nothing less than perfection would be fit for Trinity.

Everyone has a different tale as to what happened next. Some maintain that it was inebriation on the part of the committee leading to a series of accidents spiralling out of control, others that some infiltrator from sabotaged the display, there are many colleges who benefited enormously from what followed. However, they are fools.

I shall tell you what actually happened. A lone malcontent, furious at being denied a ticket to the Ball, had snuck into the event using some ne-

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farious means. As preparations were underway to light the display this malcontent threw a frisbee forged into a Möbius Strip at the spire. It was meant as a petty act of protest at the unmathematical nature of the Ball. Fate, however, was not with the discontented mathematician as his frisbee sliced through the pipes fuelling the display the very second members of the committee lit it. The resulting pillar of fire could be seen all the way from Oxford and secondary detonations peppered the Ball, sending the assembled party-goers running in all directions.

The crowds of fleeing students and fellows would ordinarily be a disaster, but other, darker, machinations were at work that night. Disaster became catastrophe. As crowds poured out of Trinity they unknowingly triggered fail-safes and contingencies which the other colleges had planned long before. For, you must remember Trinity’s power and wealth was coveted by others and they guarded it just as jealously. It was this envious desire for Trinity’s wealth that meant when the fleeing masses entered John’s or Trinity Hall they were seen by these other colleges as the forerunner to an invasion, and countermeasures were quickly activated. Already under pressure from the spire’s collapse Trinity was unable to resist as the forces under the command of the Greater Cambridge HeadQuarters such as the feared ‘Master’s Own’ Sidney Sussex Assault Division, the dreaded Clare’s Irregular Armour, and the terrifying Magdalene Infantry (5th and 6th battalions) commenced operations against Trinity These forces, some of you count them as your predecessors, rampaged through the college, pillaging and plundering as they went,

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for, you must understand, they believed the college to be mortared with silver and paved with gold.

Desperate for these riches, and to humble Trinity, the incensed militia tore it apart in a biblical storm of violence. Whewell’s, Blue Boar, and Bishop’s Hostel burned, and lines were formed by the militia ferrying chest of gems after rack of wine after stack of books out of the growing inferno to their own colleges, where they still stand as a monument to victory. A daring raid by John’s secured the chapel’s bell and within the hour it was installed in their own college, standing motionless to this day, its infernal racket finally silenced.

This calamity had not broken the will of the college to resist, no they fought on bravely. Whether it was planted by the enemy or realised in the midst of the carnage is not known, but the rumours spread quickly, and it was this that shattered the resolve of Trinity. For certain members of the boat club were not present in the ranks, they had gone over to the other side, and the thought of taking up arms against brothers and sisters was too much for most to cope with, the fighting ceasing as Trinity surrendered. It is now known that many years before that fateful May Ball an offer was made by a conurbation of other boat clubs, which would secure Trinity’s victory in bumps for years to come. Reckless and unheeding the captains rushed into the agreement and handed over some, so they thought, unimportant documents, maps, and plans.

This agreement had long since faded from memory before the enormity of their mistake was realised in its full, terrible majesty.”

The scarred man gestured to the window behind him. Beyond a small lake stretched a meadow, marred by a shallow ditch that bisected the field, ending at the feet

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of St John’s New Court.

“You’ve often walked down that ditch.” The scarred man said, gesturing to the window, “That was the original course of the Cam, before it was dammed and diverted to run over the ruins of the Trinity, flooding what remained of its existence. The foundations were torn up later by divers still believing that some of Trinity’s vast wealth remained down there, just waiting to be uncovered. Others placed their faith in the north extension of the University Library, the basement of which is rumoured to connect to the old Burrell’s Field compound of Trinity. But you want my opinion, that is why you are here, asking an old man to repeat a tale best left to die. Fine. Look out the window, you see the trees just beyond the lake? Good. They grow on the site of the Wren library, and there are many treasures from that building which are still unaccounted for.”

Excitedly muttering the crowd left the old man, each believing that they would be the one to uncover the last of Trinity’s treasures. If any of them had looked back, doubted for even a second, they would have seen, as the scarred man placed his hands behind his head, a red tattoo of 3 roses surrounding a chevron.

Competition!

Travisty is holding a contest to get back at the Daily Mail. For too long the innocent (or not so much) Cambridge May Ball goer has had their privacy and dignity violated by the plague of journalists.

To rectify this we are asking you to submit the best photo you can take of a Daily Mail (or other similar publication) journalist during May Week.

Prizes will be offered for the best entries as follows: 1st place: A bottle of Prosseco.

2nd place: Two slices of fudge.

3rd place: A signed copy of the Daily Mail.

Any entries should be submitted to smw86@ cam.ac.uk by the end of June.

Write for Travisty Come to Writers’ Group restarting next year!

8:00 pm Mondays in the JCR Email: smw86@cam.ac.uk

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Horoscopes Alexander Chamberlain and Muhammad Manji read your stars

A ries

Exams are over! Go out and relax in the sun, but remember to lather up with sunscreen to prepare for results’ day. The forecast tells me there is a 75% chance you’ll get roasted.

Taurus

It’s summer, but you’re not a fan of the weather. Like Travisty, April showers seem to have arrived late. Time management doesn’t seem to be your forte either; be careful you don’t miss your exeat meeting for the fifth time this week.

Gemini

I peer into the glimmering water to read your future. Patiently, I watch the swirls and shapes, conjured up by fate itself. I lean in to get a closer look... but suddenly a shark comes out of nowhere and rams its nose into the glass. Well, that’s the last time I try reading futures at the aquarium.

Cancer

While the days are long and the sun shines bright, it’s time to start taking inspiration from polarised lenses. The moral is: looking at a problem one way might blind you, but tilting your head 90 degrees can suddenly make everything clear.

Cover Photo base by Zuza Gałczyńska on Unsplash Edited by Simon Warrener.

Leo

Watermelon. Why is it called that? You wonder. Is the water content actually any higher than any other melon? Who was the first person to declare a watermelon a watermelon?

Why not a red-and-green melon? Or an oversized-grape?

Stay curious. There are no dumb questions, as they say.

Virgo

Be careful when you’re at the beach this summer. A new predator lurks in the open.

Harmless, they seem, until, in a gust of wind, they strike. Do not take the danger lightly. Protect yourself. The beach umbrella is a dangerous assassin.

Libra

I see beautiful holiday destinations in your summer.

Pristine beaches, cocktails with an ocean view, blue skies to kill for and... Oh shit. I double tapped.

Scorpio

Run for your life. They are coming for you. They are relentless, savage, unforgiving.

You should have returned your library book while you had the chance.

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Sagittarius

Everyone loves you. Literally everyone. Including the bees.

Especially the bees. You are allergic to bee stings. Take care this summer.

Capricorn

Like the Tory leadership race, you too have many voices vying for your attention. It’s time to cut them down. Focus on the important things in life. Like cutting taxes for rich people.

And not taking cocaine.

Aquarius

Efficiency is your middle name. You have every day of your summer planned out to the hour. You’re juggling three internships, a job and tutoring the neighbours’ kids. Your CV is longer than the manuscript for a Song of Ice and Fire. Life is going great, but don’t forget to take some time off this summer.

Burnout is real.

Pisces

Exams are over, yet Joy, Sadness, Anger, Fear, and Disgust are all fighting for control of your brain. Take time to sit down, relax, and watch Inside Out to get back on track. Pixar makes everything better. Trust me. It does.

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