Laugh Breaks Out at Travisty Meeting Arun Prabhakar continues to deprecate a publication written largely by himself Well readers, like an officer despatched to inform the modest 1950s housewife with the red-and-white flowery dress that her son has died a brave death at war, fighting for Queen and country against the dastardly - well, don’t ask me how he managed to die at war in the 1950s, let alone die bravely -, but whomst officer also has a completely debilitating stutter, I don’t know quite how to say this. So I’ll say it the only way I know how: at great, and florid, length. It happened one drizzly Thursday at Vespers. The weather wasn’t quite terrible, but it wasn’t very good either. It fell out of the realm of the pleasant, but lacked the conviction to dive so far down as to make it as a pathetic fallacy. It was the Selwyn of weathers: neither here nor there, and certainly not close to anywhere you want to be. I was walking back to college from a secret location in the tower of the University Library where we had been conducting Trinity Philosophy Society initiation rites on freshers. Portboarding: it’s traditional, you see. I was also being chased by some debt collectors who looked like something out of a Tintin comic, but who are most certainly not relevant to the matter at hand and should in fact be expunged from your memory, as should any and all allegations, suggestions, and even suspicions that I may have racked up a rather large sum of owed money on account of the veritably Bacchanalian quantities of wine consumed over the course of remarkably few individual evenings, and I wish to make it, dear reader, absolutely crystal clear that I have had no history at all with the courts in this regard (or any other), not least over any issue that father might have had to pay a hefty sum to hush up, on account of which he has cut off my Scotch ration for this term which I am not happy about at al- [Let’s get back on track, shall we? -Ed.] I was walking back to college from the Sidgwick site, where I had been hard at work on my dissertation. The weather was, not to mince my words, dismal, and it was a Thursday evening. After grabbing a quick potato-fried potato with mash from hall, I headed to the JCR for our weekly writers’ meeting. (Since of course nothing recounted in this article really happened, we can simply stipulate that the Wuhan bat never left its cave.) Everyone was there: Skinny B, Skinny P, Divestronella, Vito Cannelloni, and the online thesaurus I use to help me write light verse. We gathered around the poker table to address the matter at hand. Then, once we had secured the shipment of transgender
Floreat Pica
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