El Sid | Michaelmas 2010

A letter fromthe editor

2

Contents

Harry Potter and thePhilosopers Loan

3

Harry was excited. He’d been excited ever since he’d got his letter back in mid-August; the letter

which had brought him the best news in his dul l l i ttle Muggle™ life. And here he was, standing

on the platform, the letter clutched unnecessari ly in his hand. He’d already memorised the

whole thingR

‘Dear Harry, ’ it began. ‘I am writing to confirm your place at Sidney Sussex College of Witchcraft

and Wizardry, beginning in October 201 0. Please make sure you arrive at the College on the

morning of Saturday 2ndR’

I t was early morning on that Saturday 2nd as Harry paced up and down the platform,

desperately worried that his train wasn’t there. He decided to search out an important-looking

person in a fluorescent jacket, in the hope that he might be able to shed light on the situation.

“Excuse me,” Harry said. “Do you know when the Sidney Sussex Express is due to arrive?”

“The Sidney Sussex Express?” laughed the fluorescent man. “Mate, the rail service has been

privatised for seventeen years. First Capital Connect now runs that l ine.”

What fol lowed was a journey of unspeakable horror.

When he final ly arrived, Harry alighted the train with al l his luggage (which, he noted with

disgust, there was not adequate provision for on the train and which therefore had to sit on his

lap crushing him all the way from London) and made his way towards the entrance to the

College. There he saw a man directing streams of young witches and wizards through the large

gates.

“Freshers this way!” shouted the man, in a bizarre kind of Brummie accent.

“I ’m a Fresher,” said Harry. “Who are you?” he asked in a manner which was slightly blunt and

rude, but necessary in order to introduce the new character into the story.

“I ’m Hagrid, ” said the man, “Sam Hagrid. I ’m the Head Porter at Sidney Sussex College of

Witchcraft and Wizardry, and I ’m in charge of the grounds and the keys and all manner of l ittle

wisdoms you’l l be requiring over the coming seven books.”

“Seven books?”

“Sorry, I mean three years. Anyway, move along now! Freshers this way!”

Harry moved through as he was directed, fol lowing the hoards of young witches and

wizards just l ike him, al l looking something between frightened and excited. They emerged in a

brightly l it room, with wooden walls and flooring and desks surrounding a large open space in the

middle. Confused, Harry turned to the boy next to him – a gangly, ginger freak of a kid whom

Harry had tried to avoid having to speak to unti l now.

“Excuse me, do you know what this is?” Harry asked.

“I think it’s the Mong Hall”, repl ied the ginger kid.

“ErR”

“Don’t worry, it’s not what you think it is. ”

“I fucking hope not, ” said Harry, hideous images flying through his brain.

“I t’s just a name. This is actual ly where we get our keys and packs and shit before we go to our

rooms.”

“Right. ”

A moment passed. As moments frequently do.

“I ’m Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley,” said the ginger kid. Harry’s stomach lurched. He’d been

4

hoping to avoid a formal introduction. He couldn’t stand the thought that the first fel low wizard

he ever had proper contact with would be ginger.

“Harry,” said Harry, shaking Ron’s hand. “Harry Potter. ”

Harry surreptitiously wiped his hand on his hoodie. Damn, he thought. I ’m going to have

to get this thing disinfected now. And it’s my favourite hoodie – it has ‘Leavers 1 0’ written on it,

which tel ls everyone that I was really popular at school.

“So how come you know so much about this already then?” asked Harry, thinking he may as well

milk the ginger kid for information with an eye to ditching him as soon as the cool people arrived.

“Oh, my brothers study here. They’re twins, in the third year. They’re big on the Quidditch

team.”

“The hell ’s Quidditch?” asked Harry, but he didn’t have time to hear a reply as it was his turn to

collect his keys and Fresher’s Pack. He was then escorted briskly from the room and outside,

away from Ron, towards the room which he would be call ing home for the next year.

“So where’s my room?” Harry asked one of the students guiding him. The boy was wearing a

dark blue t-shirt that seemed to be some kind of uniform at Sidney.

“You’re in Cromwell Court, ” repl ied the student. “I t’s just up here on the left. ”

“Cromwell Court?” said Harry, entering the building. “Who’s Cromwell?”

”Oh, you’l l find out soon enough,” repl ied the boy mystical ly, opening up Harry’s room for him

and promptly departing to try and find a more attractive Fresher to help.

Harry dropped his luggage on the floor and looked around the room. I t was pretty much

as he’d expected – decorated in the world’s dul lest shade of beige, but apart from the comfy

chair that was almost disarmingly uncomfortable, it seemed adequately furnished. Reasonably

satisfied, Harry moved over to the window and looked out onto the street. An angry old man

stared back at him from outside the pub across the road, one hand holding a cigarette and the

other gesturing abusively. Harry closed the curtains.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” said Harry.

Ron’s head poked around the corner.

“Harry! What a coincidence! We’re neighbours! I ’m next door!”

Harry was almost sick.

“Really! Oh coolR WowR Erm, who else is in this flat, do you know?”

“There’s a girl cal led Hermione, and there’s one other person but I ’ve got no idea who it is. ”

“Right, ” said Harry. At least there would be other people in the flat to share his pain.

`At just that moment another head poked around the door.

“Hello!” said the head. “I ’m Hermione!”

Hermione entered the room. She was short, bushy-haired with sparkl ing blue eyes. She

was really quite pretty. Not that Harry noticed, of course, because he was a secretly gay.

“Hi! ” said Harry and Ron in unison, sl ightly unnervingly.

“Are you two coming to the Headmaster’s Garden Party? I t’s starting in a few minutes,” said

Hermione.

“Oh dang and balls!” said Ron. “You’re right! We need to get there as soon as possible!”

“What’s the Headmaster’s Garden Party?” asked Harry.

“I t’s where we meet the rest of our year, eat mediocre sandwiches and steal crested crockery.

And the Headmaster gives a speech,” explained Hermione.

“That sounds deeply unexciting,” said Harry, as he fol lowed the two of them out of the room and

out of the flat.

Harry was right, the Garden Party was deeply unexciting. I t was largely spent mil l ing around

feeling sl ightly awkward, having j i l ted conversations with other new students and eating the

sandwiches, whose mediocrity was indeed to be applauded.

5

“Hi, I ’m Nevil le Longbottom,” said a short, fat, nerdy-looking type whom Harry knew immediately

was a scientist and a dullard. But beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“Harry,” said Harry, shaking his hand. Here was an opportunity to make an ally. “Please help

me,” Harry said quietly, leaning in closer, “I ’ve got this hideous ginger kid fol lowing me round,

and I want to shake him off before he thinks we’re best friends for the whole three years. . . ”

“Do you like World of Warcraft?” asked Nevil le, obl ivious.

Bollocks, thought Harry.

The soft tinkle of cutlery on glass ended what would otherwise have been a conversation,

as the garden fel l si lent and looked over to where the Headmaster stood.

“That’s Albus Wallace-Hadri l l , ” whispered Ron, who had, distressingly, re-appeared at Harry’s

side. “He’s the Headmaster of the College and a legendary Classicist. ”

“A what?” whispered Harry.

“No idea,” answered Ron.

“Welcome,” beamed Albus Wallace-Hadri l l from the other end of the Garden, “to Sidney Sussex!”

He gazed around the garden at al l the young Freshers around him, his piercing blue eyes

seeming to rest on every single one. He had an affable nature about him; he seemed in one

glance to communicate genuine care and trust to each individual there. Harry warmed instantly

to him – here, he knew, was somebody he could rely on, and who would always be there to help

no matter what befel l him in the coming few years.

“I have just one quick thing to say to you allR and that is, for heaven’s sake get a fucking first! ”

The Headmaster sat back down again to l ight applause. Harry felt sl ightly winded.

“Got an amazing way with words, that man,” said Ron, who apparently didn’t know when to shut

the hell up. “Anyway, come on. We have to go out for dinner with our subject groups now!”

I t had distressed Harry when he had learnt that he and Ron were both studying the same

subject at Sidney, Philosophy with Defence Against the Dark Arts. He wished now that he’d

gone for his second choice of Tripos, History with Miscellaneous Kick-Ass Magic Shit. But sadly

the standard offer had been a bit too high.

Begrudgingly he fol lowed Ron out of the garden with a group of other Philosophers,

ranging from first- to third-years. Among the group Harry spotted two other students with a

similar freakish hair colour to Ron – he assumed these must be the twins that had been

mentioned earl ier. He was happily musing about how, if he set the three of them on fire, nobody

would be able to tel l and he’d get away with it, when he was interrupted by the sudden

appearance of a wispy, si lver figure hovering in front of the group.

“Hello al l ! ” said the figure, despite the fact that it didn’t have a head. I t just hovered there, with

its neck exposed to the elements and nothing atop it.

“What on earth is that??” whispered Harry to Ron.

“That’s our resident ghost, Completely Headless Cromwell ! ” explained Ron. “Hi, Oli ! ”

“How do you do?” replied the ghost. At this point an Irish student fled.

“What happened to your head?” Harry couldn’t help asking, because at the end of the day he’s

quite a rude little shit.

“I t’s buried somewhere under the chapel, ” said Cromwell . “I ’ve been trying to retrieve it for

decades. But I can’t hold the sodding spade.”

“Yes, yes, we all know the story,” said one of the gingers at the front of the group. “Come on

guys, we have to get to the Mahal in five minutes.”

“What’s the Mahal?” asked Harry.

An hour later, while vomiting into his curry, Harry decided that he didn’t l ike the Mahal very much.

The food was rubbish, the room was far too packed and noisy, and worst, he had been

completely taken down. His last thought before passing out in his Jalfrezi was to curse whoever

invented gingers in twin form, and the next thing he knew he was being carried back to his room

6

in a fireman’s l ift.

I t was 11 :30 the fol lowing morning when Harry emerged, cup of tea in hand and a pained

expression adorning his irritating l ittle face, in Ron’s room.

“My head feels l ike it exploded,” groaned Harry.

“You were pretty bad last night, ” said Ron, helpful ly. “You look rough. Let me get you some

paracetamolR”

“No!” said Harry, as Ron froze halfway out of his seat, “Don’t move! Peripheral vision hurts!”

The door creaked open and Hermione came in, wearing a smug grin and really very l ittle else.

This did nothing for Harry.

“Feeling good this morning?” said Hermione, barely concealing, among other things, her self-

satisfaction.

“I don’t remember much,” groaned Harry, swallowing the painkil lers Ron had handed him. He

was too hungover even to worry about catching Ginger Disease.

“No I wouldn’t expect you to,” said Hermione. “You seemed pretty wasted when you were

carried in last night. ”

“You were in al l evening? Didn’t you even go to the bar?” asked Ron.

“Oh I didn’t need to. We just came straight back here.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“Anyway, what did you get up to, Harry? How come you were so plastered?”

“I don’t even remember,” said Harry, wanting to die. There was very l ittle more obnoxious to a

hungover guy, he thought, than a smug, sober slag.

“I t was my brothers, Fred and George,” said Ron. “They decided to take you down. You

volunteered for Quidditch trials when you were smashed, too.”

“I did what?” said Harry, sl ightly too loudly for his del icate brain to process without making him

experience a searing pain. “I don’t even know what Quidditch is!”

“Oh, it’s a drinking society mainly, ” said Ron, “and occasionally you play another college at

Quidditch as well . But it’s mainly about getting wankered with very large, strong men.”

Harry perked up a bit al l of a sudden.

“Oh, well I guess I ’ l l just deal with that when I come to it. What’s happening today?”

“Well , ” said Hermione, “I ’m going to start on my reading l ist for Law with Transfiguration, and I

suggest you start your work too.”

Harry and Ron looked at each other. For a brief moment this wasn’t as nauseating for

Harry as it usually was.

“Hermione, we’ve only just arrived. I haven’t even unpacked yet. ”

But Hermione was already gone, her footsteps could be heard as she drifted down the

corridor back to her room, ready to start work. The thought of work was enough to make Harry’s

head feel l ike a bombsite. He decided to go back to bed.

The next few days passed in a hazy drunken blur. There were formal meals in suits and gowns,

coins flying around wine glasses, debauched pub crawls that ended with very public

regurgitation and, worst of al l for Harry, a rapidly depleting bank balance. He was already

hundreds of galleons into his overdraft, and he had his first College Bil l to pay by the end of the

week. He expressed his concerns to Ron one drunken evening in the bar, over the seventh pint

of sl ightly-off lager.

“I don’t know what I ’m going to do, you ginger fucktard,” slurred Harry, far less reserved in his

opinions when drunk.

“What about your student loan?” asked Ron, apparently oblivious to the insult. “Has that not

come through yet?”

“I t was meant to come through days ago, you hideous shit, ” repl ied Harry, not even aware of

7

what he was saying any more. “And I ’m not the only one. I haven’t heard of anybody who’s had

their loan yet. ”

“Yeah, I haven’t either actual ly. I guess I ’m just lucky my parents are fi lthy stinking rich and

throw money at me thoughtlessly.”

Harry swung a punch, missed, and fel l to the ground.

“I wonder if it could beR no, it couldn’t be,” said Ron, in that intensely annoying way that only

leads to further probing. Harry got back up and swayed slightly.

“Could be what?” he asked.

“WellR it’s just that it could be like twelve years ago.”

“What was twelve years ago?”

“There was a conspiracyR by a former student, you see. To get everyone hideously in debt, so

they’d have to use her debt consolidation company. She made mil l ions, and bankrupted

thousands of students. She’s evil . And rumour is that she’s back in businessR”

Harry was confused.

“I ’m confused,” confirmed Harry, in a prime example of poor narrative technique.

“You’ve never heard of her?” asked Ron, dumbfounded.

“Heard of who? Whoever it is, it sounds l ike she could be back, ‘cos nobody has their loans. I

need to know!”

Ron paused slightly for dramatic effect.

“You-Know-Whom.”

“Eh?”

“I can’t say her name!”

“What? Why?”

“WellR it’s justR people don’t l ike hearing the name. Not after what she did.”

“Give me the name!”

Ron leaned in close to Harry, and tried to focus his eyes so that he could make out which bit of

his face to talk to. He bleari ly gazed at Harry’s eyes, a sombre expression somehow concealing

al l the alcohol in his system. With a fixed stare, he whispered two wordsR

“Lord Vorderman.”

TO BE CONTINUEDR

Rejected Access Poster #1COME TO SIDNEY

FOR THE BEAUTIFUL,HISTORIC ARCHITECTURE

8

RATED! NotSoNeighbourly Habits

Music

This annoying neighbour can’t work without a beat. . . and apparently hasn’t heard of headphones.

Whatever their taste it’s sure to clash with yours, and some people choose the strangest of

accompaniments to help them work. Motivation may be gained from Eighties power ballads or stirring

victory marches. Hip-hop beats help some people focus – or perhaps a bit of jazz gives the right

atmosphere for intel l igent thought?

But this neighbour doesn’t just work to music, they l ive to it. You’l l catch them singing to themselves as

you pass on the stairs, dancing round the kitchen, and, when returning from the bar with friends, they

open Spotify before they open the fridge. In most situations, it’s almost endearing. But after their al l-

nighter, you wil l want to throttle them. Methods of avoiding arrest include buying them some headphones,

or yourself some earplugs.

Annoyance level: 5/1 0

Musical instruments

Similar to the above, this neighbour is a huge music lover. But rather than being content to l isten, they

prefer to join in the fun themselves, regardless of actual talent. I f by chance they have some skil l (e.g. if

they’re a muso, or one of those annoyingly multi-talented people) you’re in luck. But you’l l sti l l probably

have to l isten to them practice the same piece over and over. I f they aren’t that great (more likely), you’l l

have to l isten to the same piece over and over, badly. Least annoying instrument? The drums. Really -

because no one actual ly has a drum kit in their room.. . Most annoying instrument? Probably the viol in. Or

the tuba.

Annoyance level: 7/1 0 (depends on the instrument)

Early birds vs Night owls

Most students probably fit the latter category. Late to bed, late to lectures (. . .again), afternoon nap. . .

There are a few exceptions to this rule, and they’re general ly boaties. That’ l l be 5am starts in the summer,

6am in winter – alright if they’re quiet and you’re sti l l deep asleep, but not so great on their return at 8.30,

hurrying to get to lectures just as you emerge from the bleary depths of sleep into the all-too-sharp pain of

a hangover.

Conversely, if for some reason you like mornings, you may well be annoyed when your neighbour

stumbles in at 2am, bouncing off several walls on their way, or hosts a party unti l the small hours. But

remember - you’re probably the weird one.


Poor kitchen etiquette

Whether you’re lucky enough to have an actual oven or you’ve just got the basics, this neighbour wil l

RATED! NotSoNeighbourly Habits

9

leave them in a mess. George Foreman covered in burnt-on grease, hobs splashed with pasta sauce,

toaster ful l of crumbs, inside of the microwave covered with what looks l ike it might once have been curry

before it exploded (?!). Your food wil l be removed from the fridge to make way for their beer, they use

your milk while leaving theirs to go off, and if there are no mugs left you know exactly who is growing a

new mould collection. At their best, this neighbour uses your plates and leaves them for you to wash up;

at their worst they use your plates to eat food they’ve nicked off you, and then break them.


Poor shower etiquette

Not relevant if you’re a lucky sod with an ensuite, but spare a thought for the rest of us who have to put

up with flat/corridor/house-mates having showers at the oddest times (but only the odd times when you

also want to have a shower, for some strange reason). What’s worse is when you final ly get in the shower

to find the water starts pooling round your feet because the drain is clogged with someone else’s hair, the

bathroom floor is dangerously sl ippery and there’s no shampoo left because they used yours and put the

bottle back empty. This neighbour can cause serious annoyance, but more likely you’l l just pay them back

by using their shower gel instead. Or someone else’s – what goes around, comes around. . .


‘Borrowers’

No, not those little people from that book you read when you were younger. This time you know exactly

who is borrowing your stuff. From a splash of milk to stationery to clothes, this neighbour just wants to get

their hands on your things, and they’l l make up any excuse! You could see it as the most annoying form

of flattery, but more likely they’re just lazy or too cheap to go buy their own sellotape, stapler, paper, tea

bags, fairy wings, Santa hat, cardboard box. . . I f you’re lucky you’l l get them back at the end of term

(probably not the tea bags, though). The more audacious may try to make your ‘borrowed-for-a-bop’

clothing a permanent feature in their wardrobe.


Sickly souls

Yeah, alright, I ’ l l be your ‘flu buddy’. After al l we’re al l unl ikely to actual ly get i l l , right?

Not this neighbour. Be it freshers’ flu, swine flu, norovirus. . . they’ve got them all . Often at the same time.

That could leave you having to fetch them food (if they can stomach it), prescriptions, cleaning supplies,

you name it. But hey, they’d do the same for you. You hope.

Annoyance level: 3/1 0 (after al l , they can’t help it)

Casanova

. . .and doesn’t he/she want you to know it. Apparently this neighbour’s sexual prowess is so great that it

must be broadcast to the world by means of squeaking mattresses, banging headboards, and noises you

really didn’t want to hear from them. I ’ l l stop now to save us all imagining it, but suffice to say this

neighbour is triply annoying: for the noise, for the actual sounds, and for the reminder of what they’re

getting that you aren’t. Or at least, you hope they’re not alone, or it’s doubly creepy. The only solution is to

turn up your music and hope it’s al l over quickly. . .

Annoyance level: 1 0/1 0 1 0

11

Which? OccupationIn a time of dark economic crisis and a vibrant student protest movement, what better time

to kick conformity in its big, capitalist testicles and join an occupation?

Occupations have everything a poor student could want from a new home: no rent save voluntary

contributions, endless copies of the Social ist Worker for reading material/cigarette rol l ing paper/lolz, a

healthy diet of home cooked vegan nomz and exclusive access to any trace of integrity left in politics. Of

course there are minor downsides to l iving in an occupation, but these are small fry to the ultimate joy of

occupational l ife, the OCCUPATION CELIDH.

Our intrepid journalist, “Token Marxist” (Sid News) and

“Annoying Useless Twat” (Everyone else in Sidney), Chris

Page the Younger-but-less-Fascistic, embarked on a long,

dangerous and treacherous journey across the country (by

Google) to find the perfect occupation for you. Yes. You. No!

Not the person sitting next to you. . .you. You in the clothes.

With the hair. And the procrastinating face. . .YES! YOU!

The Old Schools Occupation:

Ascending the lavish marble stairs, we find the normally aloof oak doors have been conveniently

chained open by heavy duty bike locks. Residents may speculate about draft, but fear not, a draft-

excluding blanket - complete with embroidered FUCK THE COALITION – hangs in the door way. And, if

that wasn't enough, what better than two young, passionate revolutionary social ists on guard twenty four

hours a day, fuel led on tea, vegan snacks and the sl ight possibi l ity of a police raid, to keep the cold winter

air – and proctors, Tab reporters, drunks, druggies, members of CUCA, porters, University Constables,

meat, annoying right wing Thatcher worshipping idiots who have nothing better to do than come and yell

at you, and, of course, riot pol ice – out.

Enter the doors and you'l l find yourself confronted by an

impressive 'safer space' pol icy, pinned to the door l ike a somewhat

bodged but no less rel igious version of Luther's 1 595 Thesis (see? I

makes historical ly relevant jokes, me). There's a lot of No's – No

Alcohol and drugs, but who needs stimulants in an environment of

such revolutionary furore and when there are just SO MANY

GLACIAL MEETINGS TO LOOK FORWARD TO. (Slightly bitter and

annoyed? Perhaps, but I am a democratic social ist. . .mostly. . . )

A nice open space, plenty of l ight from the wide windows which gave on one side a commanding

view of Senate House lawn, and on the other side. . .a wall . The 1 2th Century walls are sumptuously

adorned with aesthetical ly pleasing and political ly relevant signs such as “TUC says 'Call a General

Strike! '” and “ “Tory Cuts Ruin Lives!” and “The soya milk is vegan, just in case you didn't know”.

The floor space is clear, apart from sporadic groups of students, either working or plotting the

revolution or working towards plotting the revolution or plotting work or HAVING ANOTHER GLACIAL

MEETING YOU CAN SEE WHERE LENINISM CAME FROM CAN'T YOU. To your left, a table arranged

with al l the necessary supplies an occupation could need: biscuits, bread, hummus, pizza and take away

donated by sympathetic academics (McDonalds has never tasted better than when it is paid for by the

establishment), and a pile marked “Occupation Tobacco” which gets remarkably smaller after your

1 2

intrepid author sweeps past, in a wave of smoke and despair. Much of the food has a distinctly Stolen-

From-Waitroses-Bins-I -Wonder-How-I-Know-Oh-Because-I -Did-I t look about it. But what's a l ittle

Freeganing between comrades?

Over in the far corner a homogenous pile of bedding, sleeping bags, pi l lows, blankets and one

sleeping Anarchist (bless Jacob. You wouldn't think he was on several pol ice watch l ists when he's having

a nap, would you? Those dreadlocks almost look angelic. . . ). Bedding is spread out in middle of the room

during the night, and stored during the day. Nightime conditions are cosy, and you wil l probably end up

standing on the person you were trying to hit on, I mean redistribute the means of love with, during the

middle of the night. During the day, the bedding is a place to play hide and seek with the children of

sympathetic fel lows. I 'm pretty certain a few of them are sti l l in there. What does it matter? They aren't

going to have an education the rate this country is going. . .

At the back of the room lies the kitchen – for the purpose of this article, your intrepid author

personally consumed over 20,000 different varieties of tea, 1 60,000 cups of coffee, eighteen different

varieties of soya milk and one small non-Vegan mince pie in a moment of existential despair and

weakness. Scrumptous vegan nomz were prepared at a secret location, far from Government spies (C

Staircase, King's College) and served every day at 7pm.. . lots of stew. And pasta. I l ike pasta. And stew. In

fact, I ate more healthi ly at the occupation than at any other venture in my life. . .

But it wasn't al l about shutting down Old Schools, trying (and fail ing) to negotiate a meeting with

the VC, planning marches, and chain smoking and reading about Shakespeare's influence on Modernism

– it was a safe space. The two hundred activists who spent 11 days in that room, pretty much non-stop,

became family. More family to me that the parents who abandoned me before conception in a paper bag

outside my local slaughterhouse. More family to me that the

girlfriend who abandoned me for a member of the BNP because she

decided that the Right was better in bed (Not true. I assure you).

More family to me than the cat who. . . is actual ly real ly awesome and

sti l l talks to me. Those people become my friends, my comrades,

brothers and sisters in arms. And out of them. And in sleeping bags,

and on the doorstep at four am, sharing a single damp cigarette over

a debate about Chomsky. . .and. . .yeah, sentimental ism wil l get me no

where. So, to round up the Old Schools occupation:

Number of people: 200-1 000 (for our big open meetings.)

Length: 1 1 days. Not long enough in my opinion.

Amount of Caffeine consumed: Apocalyptic

Number of cigarettes smoked: Bibl ical

Amount of sol idarity felt: Orgasmic.

Rating: 9/1 0

OTHER OCCUPATIONS:

Yeah. . . there were a few others. In cities. Mostly in universities. I reckon one or two might have

been organised by students. Rumour has it that those students may have been social ists. A little bird told

me that one of two might have been vegans. My gut, however, tel ls me that they weren't as good as

Cambridge. We had a Ceil idh band. Did I mention? IT WAS AWESOME.


BECAUSE WE ALL SECRETLYWANT TO KILL THE IRISH

1 3

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Miscellaneous bits and bobsA page ful l of rather si l ly things which needed a home:

Collective nouns for subject groups

A convivium of ASNACs

An argument of historians

A group of mathematicians

A map of geographers

A cunning of l inguists

A colony of Bio NatScis

A spanner of engineers

A pipe of ChemEngs

A congregation of theologians

A parthenon of classicists

A nebula of astronomers

A strata of geologists

A byte of CompScis

A market of economists

A symphony of musos

A gallery of art historians

A contract of lawyers

A menagerie of vets

A ward of medics

A sample of chemists

A tribe of SocAnths

A sonnet of english students

A party of SPS/PPS

1 4

Cheesy Song/Band Names

- Hit me

Babybell one more time

Don't Stop Briel ieveing

Sti ltons of Swing

on a Cheesestring

Harder Better Feta Stronger

Not strictly cheese but hey:

Battenberg Out of Hell

Bovri l Lavigne

Every so often as an undergrad you get talking to someone who turns out to be a grad (or even

worse, a fel low) and the usual response is to firstly physical ly back away from them due to their

superior intelect, then make some polite conversation about their research area, before getting

away from them at the first avail iable oppertunity. But what do Sidney grads do when they're not

in the MCR on the Playstation? Well , on the evidence of this article, it seems like they frequent

many pubs and do lots of pub quizzes, not so different from you or me, the only difference being

that they seem to win occasionaly:

I am reliably informed by Wikipedia (not the high quality investigative journalism El Sid prides

itself on but it’ l l have to do Ed.) that there are 22, 445 pub quizzes held each week in the UK. so

this term I set out to try some of the ones in Cambridge.

The first quiz of the term was the inaugural MCR pub quiz held in the Knox-Shaw and perhaps it

was the venue that promoted my American housemate to say “A pub quiz? You mean a quiz

about pubs?” When we explained it to her she said “Oh, a trivia night. ” We’re confused about

why she thought we were so keen to go to a quiz about pubs though. Must be a cultural thing.

The quiz was a close contest but we ended up winning by a couple of points, thanks to an

inspired music round by a certain Scottish historian. 1 quiz, 1 bottle of bubbly won. Result!

Fired by our success, we headed to The Alma to see what their quiz offered. Unfortunately, al l it

offered was a long cycle ride and disappointment once we arrived as, in a shocking move for a

bunch of students, we clearly hadn’t been watching enough daytime TV. I t did provide some

comedy highl ights though, notably trying to explain to our female Dutch team member why

women aren’t treated equally to men in the succession to the throne. Performance improved in

the sports round but not by enough to avoid mid-table mediocrity.

We went back to the drawing board and came up with a new team selection for the quiz at the

Clarendon Arms, not just grabbing whoever we could on our way out of the house, honest.

Things weren’t looking so good when we were struggl ing with the questions on the geography

round, especial ly because we had played our joker on this one (double points), but our not so

secret weapon, the daughter of a geography teacher and member of Sidney University

Challenge team, came up trumps ensuring that we scored ful l points. This was fol lowed by the

arrival of the cavalry, albeit sl ightly drunk cavalry, for the push to the finish. We scraped over the

l ine in first place and won the £30 prize which, when divided between us, just about paid for

entry and a drink each.

After a couple of weeks off to rest on our laurels we returned to The Clarendon Arms to defend

our crown. Our efforts weren’t helped though when we gambled our joker on the books round

and our English MPhil didn’t turn up unti l half way through the quiz so missing his starring role.

Typical, and we were sure he’d be able to bring his knowledge of Byron to bear on all those Ken

Follett questions. We sti l l ended up a creditable fourth though, and were definitely not hammered

A grads eye view:Pub quizzes in Cambridge

1 5

by the victorious Pontius Pilate and the Nail Drivers.

The week after term ended saw our trip to The Emperor for its inaugural big money pub quiz

with a prize of £250 for first place. We tackled the first general knowledge round well and scored

maximum bonus points by naming all seven countries which share the Amazon rainforest. The

music round proved tougher though, and not just because the MC was having trouble getting his

iPod off shuffle mode.

Because (queue the M&S music and sultry voiceover) this was not just a pub quiz, this was The

Emperor Big Money Pub Quiz there was even a break for bingo and play your cards right. Sadly

none of the team won the shot of their choice for completing a l ine first (bingo line, nothing

i l legal) and neither were we faced by the dilemma of whether to choose a bottle of Moet or a box

of monster munch for being first to a ‘ful l house. ’ Play your cards right offered the first player the

chance to win £500, or the next nine players the chance of £1 00 for reaching the end of the

board. To the landlord’s rel ief, no one had even got to the end of the first l ine after five

contestants, most people being scuppered by the fact that “you get nothing for a pair, (al l

together now) not in this game." All of this could have changed when it was the turn of a third

year Sidney NatSci. I t didn’t. The novelty continued as trays of sandwiches, chicken legs and

sweets were then passed round to keep the quiz players happy.

Disappointingly we didn’t finish high enough to win a prize for being in the top three or low

enough to win a round of drinks by being third from bottom. I t wasn’t al l bad news though as our

team name (Trivia Newton John) was voted joint best team name (along with Tories: Putting the

N Back in Cuts) which meant we earned a free shot of each.

A win: loss ratio of 2:5 may not be what Ferguson or Ancelotti would aspire to (in fact, based on

this if we were a Premiership team we’d be Wolves) but we were happy enough and wil l try to

improve on this next term.

1 6

Internet translators are given a hard time by many people, but can you find the proper translation

in amongst the free internet ones?

Sándor Weöres: Songs for Nanconxypan no.14Original Hungarian:

Ezer sugár találkozik az űrben

s a katlan mélyében ezer varázs

s ezer meg ezer búzaszem a csűrben.

Csak a sorsok közt nincs találkozás.

(a)

Thousands of radiation encountered in space

and the depths of a thousand magic cauldrons

and thousands of wheat in the barn

Just do not encounter between the fates.

(b)

Thousands of radiation encountered in space

and the depths of a thousand magic cauldrons

and thousands of wheat in the barn.

I just do not meet the fate of.

(c)

Beams coll ide with a thousand stars,

A thousand spells constantly heating

the cauldron of the mil l ions of eyes in the barn.

No meeting between the fates alone.

(d)

A thousand beams coll ide among the stars,

a thousand magic spells are constantly heating

in the cauldron, mil l ions of grains in the barn.

Between fates alone there is no meeting.

(e)

Beams coll ide with a thousand stars,

A thousand spells constantly heating

The cauldron of the mil l ions of eyes in the barn.

There is no meeting of the fate alone.

Answer (d)

Hungarian PoetryCorner

1 7

Obligatory Boat Club ArticleRegular readers wil l remember the sad and distressing disappearance of previous boatie

correspondent whose name has now been erased from all records and existence. I sure that

you wil l join us here at El Sid in a moments thought to remember the great work that he did

exposing CUCBC scandal. However, this afternoon, who should walk in the door clutching a last

minute article but someone who looks a bit l ike the other guy we had but maybe a bit different.

This is what he had to say:

Much has happened since the last in depth look at the Cambridge boat clubs and CUCBC. Most

are too dull (or not dul l enough) to mention but there are a select few reports, which need to be

shared. First, the novice coxes talk at the beginning of Michaelmas term was well attended and

despised by all those within a two mile radius of the venue. Such insight as “make sure you

steer the boat”, “don’t mow down small , cute and furry animals (which was accompanied by

pictures)” was presented and by the end most had either committed suicide or run away,

screaming.

Our thoughts go to those who are sti l l requiring counsell ing and strong medication.

More interestingly (and fortunately for boataphobes) the senior Fairbairn’s Cup race for 201 0

was cancelled due to freezing temperatures rendering large swathes of river un-rowable. The

cause of the freak weather is yet unknown but started the same night as the CUCBC officials

and umpires annual bal l . As is the tradition, several Misummer Common cows were sacrificed to

their god by beating them over the head with an oar. Once kil led, the CUCBC leader shouts

“easy there, take the rump off” and steak is then served to all including vegetarians (whose

meals were made suitable by hiding said steak in a side salad).

This behaviour, whilst odd, is expected. What was unexpected was the large box marked

“ACME” which was the centrepiece of the predrinks. I t is now believed that due to excessive

consumption of wine, the officials were too hungover to organise anything for Fairbairns (Jesus

just put their name to it). Consequently, they activated the machine that was in the box, which

consequently scorched the skies and plunged the country into deep freeze. This way, the

officals could stay at home and drink Alka Seltzer in peace.

Whilst these reports cannot be confirmed, given the scandalous nature (see previous ElSid

editions for information) of CUCBC’s past, this seems to be the only logical and realistic

explanation. Some say this is simply a crackpot conspiracy theory and that the weather was

actual ly caused by an altering of the gulf stream due to rising global temperatures. Idiots.

Addendum

Unfortunately, as before, the writer of this article has been captured by CUCBC and

consequently made unperson. I t is simply fortunate that this report has sti l l been published.

We’l l get them one day.

1 8


IF YOU FLUNK YOUR DEGREE THERE'SALWAYS A CHANCE YOU CAN ENDUP AS A GAMESHOW PRESENTER

1 9

Garden Court’s Come Dine With MeIt is the Channel 4 favourite of students and OAPS, no not Countdown, but television’s eternal search for the “hostess with the mostess”: Come Dine With Me. Forget the riots, this is the truly groundbreaking stuff: Garden Court audaciously attempts to pull off Come Dine With Me, using only the cooking equipment supplied by college, that is, a George Forman (Lean-Mean-Fat-Fighting-Grilling-Machine) and an 800 Watt microwave. Five pairs of chefs cooked a three-course meal and provided sterling banter and dinner-table wit for their guests. It was however the food not the oratorical fireworks that they were to be judged on. Scores were collected and the winner would receive not only the prestige of such a victory but also a spectacular prize (undoubtedly sourced from Sainsbury’s reduced section).

Monday

The first day of the competition kicked off with a family affair. Anna, Rory and Anna’s visiting sister took over the kitchen to prepare a treat for our senses. The menu was set to impress; pear, walnut and halloumi cheese salad to start, followed by “mixed-up chicks”, that’s chicken wrapped in parma ham to you and me, with asparagus tips and a pavlova for dessert.

It seems that sophisticated Anna was rumbled as almost everyone anticipated that “asparagus tips”, her characteristic student grub would make an

appearance on the menu. Some competitors were clearly concerned having

seen the menu, “oh my word that’s posh”, one chef declared, clearly hoping for an asparagus tip-disaster. Had they been in the kitchen they may not have been so worried. On the discovery of “black stuff” on the halloumi, the response was a relaxed one, as Anna told her sister to just “cut those bits off”.

Both starter and main course were met with almost embarrassing levels of praise. Worried faces surrounded the table as everyone wondered how it would be possible to top this. The bar had certainly been set toweringly high by Anna’s posh menu and the only hope for the rest of us was food poisoning from that dodgy halloumi.

The team scored a brilliant 9.2.

Consternation at Anna’s intimidating menu

The Souter Sisters’ fancy table decs and pavlova

20

Tuesday

A new day and a new couple were ready to delight a hungry crowd. Today the cooking smells wafting under the swing doors were a flashback to a simpler time. David and Ellen’s menu was fashioned on a children’s birthday party. Their

culinary exploration to 1995 culminated in a menu of “petits fours aux fromages” and chilli jam to start

with, chicken goujons, mini hamburgers and pigs in blankets for the mains followed by “jelly au rouge” for the dessert and sweet and savoury hedgehogs to round it all off.

While preparing the menu the pair made valiant stabs at sophistication, Ellen asking David to translate “cheeselet” into French. “Petits fours aux fromages” is apparently the answer. The cheesy snack, perfect for any occasion and available at all good supermarkets during the festive period, was expected by all to make an

appearance on the menu. They were however not received

brilliantly by the guests, one declaring they were “freaky” and another sardonically claiming the sensation of the cheeselet-chilli jam combination was similar to “a child vomiting in my mouth”.

Moving rapidly on to the main course, which went down a treat, after plastic melting incidents involving the microwave had been rectified. The emergence of party hats and Orangeaid (a 1995 vintage) were the real turning point for the pair. By the time the sweet and savoury hedgehogs had been rolled out some party attendants had had too much Orangeaid and it was time to go home anyway. The dose of nostalgia saved the day for Ellen and David who scored a respectable 7.9.

Wednesday

Midweek and Amy and Bijan had had time to reflect on the competition so far. Their menu of tomato and avocado bruschetta, followed by mushroom, leek and ham risotto for the main course and the mysterious “sparkly toffee crunchie munchie extravaganza” for dessert had our mouths watering. The menu was also greeted with some surprise at its level of

An over-excited party goer.

The famous cheeselets and the savoury hedgehog.

“Petits fours aux fromages with chilli jam”.

Ami and Bijan’s classy starter 21

sophistication. This was no slight on the chefs but a reference to the fact that Bijan will willingly eat food from the floor if peckish.

The starter went down a storm, apart from with the angry avocado hater in the corner. Main course too was also hiccup free, the vegetarian option of leek and mushroom risotto without ham also being well received. The guests seemed unfazed by the healthy glug (bottle) of wine which was accidentally tipped into the risotto and if anything the conversation improved post-risotto.

The two chefs, having enjoyed the winey splendour of the risotto moved on to the complex process of smashing up chocolate bars and whipping

cream for the dessert. The sparkling element was sadly absent in the end as we were incapable of finding any incendiary devices or convenient smokers. Nonetheless the creamy caramel-y mess went down a treat despite leaving guests on a steady course to a triple coronary bypass.

Amy and Bijan’s meal was a sure success but lack of sparkle lost them marks and they scored 8.2.

Thursday

Enter the vegetarian. With a hearty disregard for the conventional principles of a starter, main course and dessert, Ami cooked up a veggie storm of one-course variety.

She appeared with a pile of shopping larger than her (not hard), and reappeared some time later with endless plates of sumptuous meat-free cuisine. Aubergines in garlic and tomato sauce, stuffed mushrooms, walnut salad and cheesy baked potatoes were all part of the bonanza. The feast was met with orgasmic cooing from fellow vegetarians and the cries of contented vegetarians are said to still echo in the corridors of Garden Court today.

The table was groaning with the quantity of food which was quickly snatched up by hungry guests, leaving

Perhaps not just the risotto that had too much wine...

The non-sparkly toffee crunchie munchies extravaganza

Mmm food... pity there's no meat though22

what can only be described as a boggy mess of vegetarianism, Glastonbury-like, on the once pristine table cloth.

With the votes collected it seemed that Ami had lost out as her hungry diners missed their starter and dessert. However she still managed to scoop an admirable 7.7.

Friday

The final day of Garden Court’s Come Dine With Me concluded with mine and Harry’s attempts to win the prestige of the as yet unannounced prize. Conscious to outdo our fellow chefs- it may be “friendly” competition but competition nonetheless- we set out a fancy menu where presentation was to be the key. We started with

goat’s cheese crostinis with caramelized red onions, followed by sausage parcels with grilled vegetables and and puré potatoes. To round off the meal we had banoffee pie. With the chefs topping themselves up with copious amounts of Sainsbury’s Claret,

nothing could go wrong, apart from some minor timing issues and a leaky banoffee pie. Deciding deception was the path to victory, we tried to win over our guests with some mulled wine (Sainsbury’s reduced section £1.99 – only the best for our guests).

The meal was well received, it seems that people do like waiting nearly an hour for their food and the banoffee pie managed to leave us with a more than respectable 8.7.

So when the votes were counted, guests and competitors waited in hallowed silence for Anna and her team to be revealed as the highly deserving winner. She is yet to be awarded with the customary £1000 prize money, as Student Finance refuse to consider cookery challenge awards as a necessary element to a maintenance loan. A bag of Maltesers is however winging its way to the talented chef and associates.

So it wasn’t the staggering prize money or the ability of alcohol to influence the votes that really surprised us, but in fact the incredible range of culinary delights that are possible to cook on a George Forman Grill and in a microwave. And also that asparagus tips really are too posh.

An angry diner throws the goat’s cheese crostini to the floor in a bout of rage.

Minimalist cuisine: We thought if we put everything in circles people might give us more points.

Banoffee pie. Again in a circle.

23

Analysis of El Sid writers' adherence to deadlines

0

5

10

15

20

25

0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Number of previous contributions to El Sid

Re

sp

ec

t fo

r E

l S

id e

dit

ori

al

de

ad

lin

es

Donald

Amout of Beard on future El Sid Editors

Adam Chris

Awesome People Analysis

Sid News Editors

El Sid EditorsAwesome People

24

8 Days a WeekA remake of the Beatles classic for the El Sid song this term:

Ooh I need some sleep babe,I guess that you do too.But we keep on working ,As another essay’s due. Ooo.

Lectures, Reading, Essays, Supervisions.I ain't got nothin' but work babe,Eight days a week.

I’m working everyday girl,It’s always on my mind.Except for Wednesdays evenings When I’m drunk out of my mind, ooh

Predrinks, Formal, Sidney Bar, Cindies.Want to do nothing but party,Eight days a week.

Eight days a weekI need to work.Eight days a weekIs not enough time to read these books.

Ooh I need some sleep babeThe clock has just passed two.Hope you’ve got the caffeine,I need to get me through:

Red bull, Pro plus, I-V Coffee.I need these to keep working,Eight days a week.

Eight weeks a termI need to work.Then eight weeks off Is time enough to recover.

The holidays are restfulBut sometime can be dull,I much prefer the term timeWhen your diary’s always full.

Work hard, play hard, work hard, play hard.I don’t much mind the workload;Eight days I’m a geek.Eight days a week,Eight days I’m a geek.

25

Letters to the EditorApart from the usual hundreds of pieces of fan mail and female and male underwear that El Sid

editors are always sent every term, several odd letters were sent:

An angry letter A happy letter

Amorous letters

A threatening letter

A confused letter

26

A content letter

Battlesids!A Game

After Emma boat club accused Sidney W1 of impeding them in a race and consequently

disqualifying them from a competition, SSBC wanted to get their revenge. Now, in real l ife

blasting EBC out of the water with some long range arti l lery probably isn’t the best idea, but for

the purposes of this game lets just assume that the appropriate UN resolutions have been

passed and you’ve decided to ignore the hundreds of thousands of protestors call ing this an

‘i l legal, pointless war. ’ So, at Grassy Knoll/Corner let war be waged to see who can Assasidnate

[Ed: that’s enough bad puns for this article] the opposition first, keeping to the rules of the

Geneva convention, so there are no cases of genosid or emmaside. [Ed: no really please stop. ]

The Rules:

· One team is Emma boat club the other is Sidney.

· On your board, dependent on your al legiance, you must draw on:

2x Sidney/Emma 8’s (size 5x1 )

1 x Sidney/Emma 4 (size 3x1 )

1 x Sidney/Emma Scull (size 2x1 )

1 x Sidney/Emma Punt (size 1 x1 )

1 x John’s 8 (size 5x1 )

1 x Georgina (size 6x3)

· The aim of the game is to sink al l of the Emma/Sidney boats.

. The John’s boat is just a red herring (no-one cares if you sink it) and the same goes for

the Georgina.

· You can only put boats on the riverR (not the bank)

· The rest of the rules are the same as normal battleships

Optional drinking rules:

· Each time you hit a boat your opponent drinks a finger.

· I f the John’s boat sinks, everyone stands up, sings ‘I ’d rather be at Oxford than St Johns’

and downs their drink.

· I f you miss twice in succession, you drink 1 finger.

· I f you sink a boat, your opponent drinks the number of fingers equal to the size of the boat

sunk.

27

NMLKJIHGFE QPO

9

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BA/1 DC

NMLKJIHGFE QPO

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Sidney Game Board

28

NMLKJIHGFE QPO

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Emma Game Board

29

The Bit at the BackThis issue could not have happened without the contributions of al l thewriters, so I must thank:

Bryan 'the writer formerly with a surname rhyming with posh' GhoshKatie 'bass' HunterChris 'j immy' PageAdam 'got chil ls' Wil lsLiz 'they’re multiply' Ing-SimmonsDan 'calamity' KalotayGellert 'off his rocker' BokerDonald 'often covered in moss’ Ross

for al l their efforts and also for putting up with my nagging over the lastweek to actual ly give me something to publish (the length of this issuedoubled in the 36 hours before it was finished. . . )

I 'd also l ike to thank everyone else who has written stuff for El Sid in thepast year and everyone else who have helped contribute their time andideas to the magazine.

So, that's it from me, I hope my lack of good timekeeping/censorship/frequent lapses in correct spell ing and grammer have notdiminished your reading pleasure too much - you've got this far, so Imust be doing something right, unless I 'm the only one reading it, inwhich case I suppose it's a futi le task to conti

30

El Sid | Michaelmas 2010

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