contentS

Kerem Ergene Joe Court

Kerem Ergene Megan Crane

Muhammad Manji

Muhammad Manji Martha O'Neil

Joe Court

Toby Henley Smith

Harry Metrebian

Kerem Ergene

Alexander Chamberlain

Fedor Misyura

Megan Crane

Columella Mina Frost

Kevin Wang

Arjun Banwait

Petr Dolezal

Megan Crane

Fedor Misyura

Muhammad Manji

Mina Frost

Mina Frost

Jovan Powar

Travisty Writers

thIS week’S contrIbutorS

Cover Stories

Letter from the Editors

This Week’s Contributors

Positive Life Changes

Detective Portero

Travisty Investigates

Presidential Thoughts

RON for TCSU President

How To: Survive Burrell’s

How To: Look Cool in Lectures

Infographic

Cocktail of the Week

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The Homecoming

The Economist Potatoes of Trinity

New Year’s Fireworks

Get Fit Quick

Keep Off The Grass

What ’s on in Cambridge?

Weather Forecast

Horoscopes

One-Liners

Alexander

Joe Court

Jovan Powar

Kevin Wang

Toby Henley Smith

you can make In cambrIdge

Travisty gives you some inspiration for your New Year's Resolutions

Stop going to Gardies every night

However choose you spend your evenings—whether you’re on a night out, at formal hall, spending the night in the library or having a quiet night in—you will always end up in Gardies at 3am. Like clockwork. It’s really not worth all the effort for greasy microwaved cheesy chips, you’d be much better off getting a bit more sleep.

Cry less in supervisions

A good cry is often helpful and necessary. But it’s probably not the best idea to break down in front of your supervisor about the excessive workload and stress and your disastrous night out which has left you near-paralysed during the supervision. There’s a time and a place.

Daily shops at Tiger

I honestly can’t think of anything better to do with your time than roam through Tiger. Haters will say that you don’t need a giant pencil or inflatable ostrich but you don’t need to worry about them. You do you.

Phone-free time

Every now and then there comes a point in your life where you feel like throwing your phone at a wall and just escaping the constant cycle of procrastination. Next time it might be worth actually doing it! I can guarantee you’ll have the most productive night of your life.

Disclaimer: Travisty holds no liability over broken mobile devices and urges readers to consider the benefits and costs carefully before throwing their phones at a wall.

Boycott the NSS

Do it. You’ll make Amatey proud.

Don’t go to John’s

This one feels self-explanatory. It’s really not worth it, trust me.

We last saw our hero apprehending the sinister Dr Salazar whom he then led to the confession chamber behind the Porters’ Lodge.

The Winter sun awoke from its slumber, and Detective Portero strolled out of the Porters’ Lodge emerging into a cacophony of wailing sirens. Two tall policemen carried the diminutive figure of Dr Salazar away, her feet barely touching the floor, as she screamed “You’re going to pay for this, Winstanley!” He smiled and turned back to the Head Porter who nodded approvingly.

“Good work Winstanley. Sir Isaac knows how long she’s been hosting those illegal port sales but you’ve put a stop to it. Shame we couldn’t find any links to the coyote case.”

Still smug after all the praise from the Head Porter, Detective Portero reached for his pipe, thoughtfully filling it with his finest Cuban tobacco and lighting it under the porch of Great Gate. He watched the smoke swirl and rise through the cold air, and disappeared into his mind palace. How curious, he thought, that there was no connection between the missing coyotes and the strange cult of youths in Wordsworth masks. He puffed impatiently, before turning decisively and hailing the Head Porter once more.

“We need to check the tunnels again. I’m sure I missed something,” he muttered gruffly.

“I can’t understand anything you’re saying with that darned pipe in your mouth Winstanley: try piping up a bit,” she replied, visibly pleased with her crafty wordplay.

He rolled his eyes and pulled his pipe out of his mouth. “Follow me.”

He led her around the Scholars’ Lawn and into the secret crypt, opting to direct her to the left with a Victorian miners’ oil lamp he had found in lost property. The passage twisted and narrowed and widened, before ending at a locked wooden door.

“What now?” asked the Head Porter.

The Detective cracked his knuckles, took a step back and thrust his extended hand towards the lock, like a karate chop. The locking mechanism gave way and the door splintered open, revealing a very large room full of crates and barrels.

They had found the legendary wine cellar under Great Court. A quick patrol told them they had no company.

“Let’s spring another trap,” the Head Porter suggested excitedly and Winstanley nodded, strolling over to the nearest crate and pulling out two bottles of 1985 Sandeman. They drank to their health and a half hour later he found himself fetching two more bottles.

“Ophelia” he said at last, breaking the silence which had descended upon them—a palpable, knowing silence that wrapped itself around their shoulders and pulled them closer together. They had so much to say and yet, even after all these years, they had not dared to shatter the delicate equilibrium of their companionship. To speak or die?

“Yes, Winstanley?” She smiled, almost painfully.