* coming 2015 - possibly.

Thursday, 27 August 2009


Rifts: A divisive item of footwear, manufactured by Nike. So divisive, in fact, that you could say they caused a 'rift' in the group! Ha ha. Ha.

Known wearers of Rifts include Ben Stubbins (who owns more than one pair), the Legend, fat black women in Weybridge, a fit lesbian in London and Brett Betts. ChloĆ« is a notable defender of the wearing of Rifts, with their harshest critics including the rest of 35 Romsey, Stoker, and many other Robinsonians. The Legend's justification of “but ChloĆ« likes them” was declared invalid by Desh during the great purge of 2008, along with other of his key phrases such as “what I'm saying is” and “I'm allowed!”

Dingly said Rifts made the Legend look like a 21st Century goat; on it being pointed out to him by Desh that goats still exist in the 21st Century and that, therefore, a 21st Century goat was just a goat, Dingly declined to change his insult to “futuristic goat”.

the Legend is wearing:
Lad Pant Suit;
Generic Blue poor quality t-shirt;
Rifts (model's own).

Desh is wearing:
Red (of course);
Girlfriend Pro;

More Rifts can be seen at: http://tinyurl.com/rifts111

Friday, 31 July 2009

I can't believe they put me in charge of children...

From our regular correspondent, Uncle Bellend:

For some unfathomable reason, the organisers of Whitwell Primary School's summer play scheme decided (in their infinite wisdom) that I was suitable to supervise a group of twenty-odd 7-10 year olds. It's volunteer work, so to make it more exciting I decided to conduct a little psychological experiment – think Lord of the Flies meets the Milgram experiment.

We spent the first day playing football and rounders, and a natural leader emerged: Ryan*, aged 9, was intelligent, athletic and confident. I took him to one side on the morning of the second day and told him that I was putting him in charge. He would have to subordinate to me if necessary, but apart from that he was given free rein. And a stick. A hollow metal pole was his leader's staff, handily doubling up as a tool with which to beat the other children if they stepped out of line. Ryan immediately appointed two deputies – Sam* and Luke* - and set about his task with relish. Sam and Luke were very similar in some ways; they were both popular, big for their age and less intelligent that Ryan.

The early results were fascinating. I was ready to move in to quell insurrection if necessary, but Ryan and his men had it all under control. When they wanted to play football, the group had to play football. If they fancied a game of cricket, they played cricket. One boy, Jamie*, stood up to them on the third day, but his dissent was ruthlessly crushed. In fact, I had to step in to prevent him getting a real beating! I told him to keep quiet, and if anybody asked, he got hit in the face playing hockey. Twice. In any case, I doubt his parents would believe him if he told the truth; he's an odd child.

Today was the fifth day, and observing from a distance I saw Ryan and Luke creating a flag, a white stretch of material with their initials stencilled in blue: L R S, with the R raised above the other two. Sam appeared to be creating some sort of pen or cage out of chicken wire, perhaps to keep Jamie in. Is the power going to their heads? It's absolutely enthralling to watch and there's still a week to go; who knows what will happen?

* names have been changed.
** the reality in which this is based has also been changed; the entire event took place in Inner Reality.

Jane the Bedder

Bedder - short for 'bedmaker', a housekeeper in a college at the University of Cambridge.

Jane – The endlessly entertaining bedder (cleaner) at Romsey Terrace. Bedders at Robinson College fell into three divisions: the kindly old bedders such as Lorraine (first division); the Generic Poles (second division); and Jane (third division). Jane's presence in the third division is due solely to the fact that she didn't actually clean, but rather sat on her arse all day in 35 Romsey reading the paper. It was always our house she chose, for some reason. Perhaps she liked us. Anyway, there were so many facets to Jane's (completely unintentional) humour that we always forgave her utter lack of motivation to actually do her job. She collected any change we left in our rooms and put it in a charity jar (without our consent), we're pretty sure she drank some of Stew's vodka (and refilled the bottle with water) and she never shut up about her bloody dog. Oh god, the dog. It sounded like the worst dog imaginable. Perpetually on death's door, requiring an expensive cocktail of medication just to keep it alive day from day, Jane would tell us how it would constantly try to bite her hand when feeding it. Every morning, as we were rushing to leave the house to get to lectures, she would tell us at great length about the latest near death experience or frenzied attack.

Our kitchen after Jane had 'cleaned'.
Another popular topic of conversation was her new car, which was actually pretty nice; a black sporty number, we could never work out how she afforded it, but found it hilarious when she told us that the seller recommended she should only fill it with Super V unleaded (or something similarly expensive), which meant she drove miles out of her way every time she needed to refuel to find the only garage in a 50-mile radius that stocked it. Jane had many other idiosyncracies. Her tea drinking habits, for example, were legendary. We offered her milk, we offered her a mug, we offered her a fridge, but no; Jane liked to keep her own supply of milk in a locked cupboard under the stairs (where it tended to curdle) and drank her tea from crappy little plastic cups, which would often warp–and probably degrade, releasing a whole host of toxins–when filled with boiling water. On top of this, Jane put the milk in the cup first, then put the teabag in the milk, and then added the water. This is what greeted us when we came down to breakfast every morning: our resident skanky friend, replete with greasy ringlets, sat in our kitchen, reading our paper, nursing a cup that was melting as she drank from it, filled with hot water added to a cold, wet, teabag, in milk that was probably sour, while telling us about her frenzied dying dog. Rob went right off his breakfast on 25th April 2008, when Jane bent over and he got an eyeful of her grop (the dead, fleshy, fatty area round the sides of a waist). He sent a ZDIS reporting this incident and then went to lie down in a dark room for a while.

Jane also had a very individual approach to the English language. She liked to pronounce 'bluetooth' as “blue tuff”, and spoke in a strange Norfolk farmer dialect of her very own, in which everything ended with “didn't they?”, “aren't we?”, “in't it?” or something equally incomprehensible: “bloomin' David's still asleep! Nobody's not awake yet, aren't they?” Ah yes, David. Jane thought Dingly was called David (as does Stew's friend, Nikul). This was partly our doing: we told her in the first week that he was called David and that 'Tom' was just his nickname. This is an actual note (pictured) that Jane left for Dingly one morning. She also tended to refer to him as a “proper grumpy guts” when he shuffled downstairs bleary eyed and half-dressed in the morning. Finally, Jane wasn't a big fan of the Lads; when we raided the Legacy after exams and stole everything out of their kitchen, she told us to give them their pineapple back but said “we'll keep their clock here, eh, shouldn't we?”. Jane, you will be missed.

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