Wednesday 12th October 2011Issue No 37 travisty.co.uk

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WRENEGADE: WEISZY GOES COMMANDO

P6

SUGAR DADDY WRITES...

P5

GUNS 3

GAP YAHS 5

GRANTHAM 7

Dear Sir/Madam,

I recently travelled with your airline on a number of routes and would have to describe myself as largely satisfied with the service provided, particularly the punctuality. However the reason that I would describe myself as largely satisfied, rather than fully satisfied, is due to my struggles with your seatback entertainment system.

I was delighted to discover the screens located on the backs of the seats as I boarded my outbound journey and anticipated that I would enjoy a pleasant flight as I lost myself in the wonders of television. I should point out at this stage that I certainly do not take the gift of flight for granted, and while it may seem petty to point out that my personal entertainment system didn’t work while I soared through the upper cloud layer for thousands of miles, I just feel that things could have been even better, which is why I thought I’d write this email to help improve your service.

My issue with the system was not a personal problem, but one that seems to affect the entire system, being built into the programme as it is. I discovered, a few minutes into this flight, that there is no way of going back to the main menu. As I was browsing through the music channels before I went on to pick a film, I found there was no way to return to the original menu, so I was left with no choice other than to press on, knowing that perhaps there would be no way back. It was somewhat reminiscent of a snake, slowly squashing the life out of his prey by tightening his grip with each exhalation of breath. The only place I could ever take a step back was once I clicked on a specific channel, and I could then return to the genre sub-menu and thus begin an Ouroborean cycle. In fact, my troubles with the entertainment system meant that I didn’t even realise that my headphones didn’t work until I gave them to a nearby passenger who had broken their own.

When I was a child I used to play a computer game called Roller Coaster Tycoon. In this game I used to erect ‘No Entry’ signs behind people as they walked through the theme park. With no option to return, people were forced ever further into the park. You can see the parallel there of course, but I was herding these people onto a walkway to then drown them (it was a very boring game, you had to make your own fun), whereas I don’t feel that there was a similarly malicious motive to the problems I had with this system.

Through some combination of button mashing and voodoo, I managed to turn the screen off. It refused to turn on again and I was left to contemplate my existence for the remainder of the flight. Thankfully I am well used to in-trospection and managing to avoid slipping into an existential crisis, but it was a close call. My generation simply doesn’t know how to handle time alone with oneself, which is why I’m writing you this letter so that the problem can be fixed as soon as possible and you don’t lose any patrons to a severe bout of solipsistic ennui.

As I sat down for my flight home, I mentally prepared myself for a second encounter, gathering a plan of action in my head so that I wouldn’t be caught out. Twenty minutes into the flight I found myself once more staring at the radio

BEN GORDONCHIEF FUSSPOT

How to Complain: In-flight Entertainment

WHINE EXPERT

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channels, knowing that to press on was to be lost, but yet there was no escape, floundering like a beetle on the rim of a pitcher plant. I’m sure you’re thinking that I would’ve done well to pay heed to the old saying, “Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me.” Alas, I believed myself to have devised a plan for avoiding the trap, but the interface was one step ahead of me. Also, while that saying is appropriate for those dealing with rivals and enemies, I feel it is not meant to be applied to inanimate seatback screens.

I had a brief glance through the in-flight magazine and decided that I would quite like to watch ‘The Adjustment Bureau’, as I am a fan of Matt Damon and try to model myself on him as much as possible. I had visualised my path through the menus, and as I carefully made my choices, all seemed to be well, until I chose the genre ‘Action’ in the movie selec-tion. Adjustment Bureau was nowhere to be seen, the only options available were two X-Men movies. Deciding that out of the two of them (Wolverine and X1), I’d rather watch X1, or more to the point I’d rather watch anything that wasn’t Wolverine, I selected it. As my finger hovered over the Play button, I noticed the rare option to go back. Thinking that these opportunities come few and far between, and feeling that I may yet have the chance to watch Mr Damon in action, I chose to go back. Inexplicably, I was taken directly to the Music page, with no hope of escape. Whether this happens all the time, or if this machine had been communicating with the one I encountered on my outbound flight, I don’t know, but I was left to sit back and reluctantly admit that I had been outmanoeuvred, like a chess player who sees an oncoming checkmate several moves ahead but is powerless to stop it.

As well as lacking a dedicated ‘Back’ button, I should point out that the ‘TV Off’ button on the controls seems not to serve any purpose at all, except perhaps that of an unattached morphine dosage button in a hospital, easing the patient’s pain and frustration as they pump it ceaselessly. It provided a surge of hope as I thought I may perhaps be able to reset the system and start from scratch. As time passed and it provided no effect, I simply wished for it to switch off the display and stop the ‘Pop/R’n’B’ page from taunting me with its selection of mindless tunes. Alas, to no avail.

I also wondered if perhaps this was my fault, to some degree. Maybe if I hadn’t been so indecisive, I wouldn’t be left staring into a merciless red display, meeting eyes with an African-American artist that I didn’t recognise. A quick glance around the plane showed a substantial number of passengers in a similar position, staring glumly at the Music channel contents page.

It was upon that sight that I resolved to inform you of my troubles and let my story be heard, so no one else would have to suffer as I did. If you need someone to write you a new system or user interface, I could put you in touch with my roommate: he’s really good with computers (and not just because he’s half Chinese) and I’m sure he’d do it for a very good price

I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours sincerely,Ben Gordon

Letter from the Editor:Hi everybody,

Welcome back to Trinity. I’m looking forward to spending my second year as a Massive Deal and spent the summer coming to terms with the fact I am now camped out in Pearce Hostel (I kid you not, my college sons tried to take a taxi there). For all you newbies, Travisty is Trinity’s aged and venerable publication, delivering high-quality local news to you every fortnight. Ahem. If you ever miss out on an issue, look us up online at travisty.co.uk, and if you want to write for us, email me on fb352. As always, the following (and preceding) pages are packed with joy and wholesome laughter, compiled by myself and my delicious helpers, Ben, Nick and Lucy.

Love Freya xx

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News in Short Shorts:Ollie strongly disapproves of the increase in tuition fees. All young people should have the right to stroll across Great Court in short shorts. “As Sydney J Harris says, the whole purpose of education is to turn mirrors into windows. Or in my case, win-dows into mirrors.”

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I had originally applied to King’s and was somewhat disappointed to be pooled to Trinity; its ostentatious grandeur is distasteful to the highest degree. I am already taking steps to set up a ‘Concrete Uniting New Trinity’ society, with our initial aims being to build a multi-storey car park in “Great Court” and to relocate the uncompromising Wolfson Building to “Neville’s Court”. Currently I walk around “Great Court” and am physically repelled by its careful symmetry, tinkling fountain and sweetly chiming bells. The one compensating virtue is the statement porta-porters’ lodge, a bold step into a brighter future for Trinity. Long may it last. But not too long.- Mr. D. U. Schbag

What’s Hot

Baby-Z – If you remember the team’s excitement when the Beckhams’ last sprog was conceived, you can only imagine how bated our breath is for “Probably the Coolest Child in the World – Ever (No Offence, Leo Cruz-Bardem)”. Fingers crossed for a Baby Boy. Why should Little Z Run This Town when he could Run The World (Girls)?

Sandwiches In Hall – Following two terms of sandwich limbo, Chicken,

Bacon and Avocado is back. Hurrah and huzzah. Dancing – Unless you like early morn-ings and ice baths, this may be the only exercise you do while In Stat. Pup. So you’d better practice.

Benedict Cumberbatch –The Planta-genet-faced, Lefty beanpole has won rave reviews for his portrayal of Pe-ter Guillam in spy classic Tinker, Tai-lor, Soldier, Spy. After next year’s War Horse and the long-awaited return of Sherlock to the BBC, he will voice Smaug in Peter Jackson’s The Hobbit. It’ll be like fancying Scar, but even better.

Druids – Plans by the Ilkley Litera-ture Festival to carve poems by Simon Armitage onto rocks on the Moor have caused consternation among local druids, who believe the land to be sa-cred. Before they try to impose poetry on the landscape, the festival organis-ers might read Taliesin’s ‘Battle of the Trees’.

In the timeless words of Kanye West, I’ve got ninety-nine problems. And these are the new female undergraduates. There are simply too many females. A shocking trend lurks behind the statistics. Women, who make up twenty-five percent of the UK’s population, flock to Trinity at such an alarming rate that almost one in every three students is affected so. These days, when equality of the sexes is supposed to be something taken for granted, such a glaring over-representation is archaic, destructive and distracting. It was only through brute intellect that I managed to get through Trinity’s frankly prejudiced admissions system and take my place among the few, few hundred male students here. And it breaks my heart to think of all of those boys left behind.- Miss Ogyny

The ImpressionistsFirst sights from the freshers

Next to Sault. Again. – Nick MorrisonAm I awake? Ooh. – Em ThurstonDidn’t make the whole trek in one go, set up camp halfway up the Avenue for an overnight stop – Ben GordonI woke up at the TCSU welcome desk on Saturday 2nd October, in a sicker, more twisted Groundhog Day (and also one which contained far fewer ethernet cables...) – Ben WeiszI didn’t get much sleep… – Alex SaultIn the social Siberia known as Pearce Hostel. The loneliness…- Freya BerryDefinitely not in Jaeger, wearing a pair of trunks. No sir. – Oliver WhiteI woke up in St John’s – Jacob TrevethenI woke up in my own room on Portugal Street which, since Alex Sault lives in New Court, came as a bit of a shock – Rosie Lintott Snug in my own bed. I decided it was good idea to drink a bottle of vodka at formal and passed out before Burrell’s even started. I really wish I was lying – Kate PfefferOutside Twinham’s window...damn curtains – Michael Thornton

What we’ve been up to: Where we woke up after Burrell’s

Overheard...Pre-season training for everybody’s favourite rugby star began with a physical endurance challenge not entirely sanctioned by the coach...or the challenge’s mother.

Water water everywhere...but if it’s dirty best avoid it. The latest study from Bur-rell’s University suggests a correlation between algae density and sharks.

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What’s Not

Gap Years – With the mahoosive leap in tuition fees coming into force next year, your New Age friend finding herself in Laos may wish she’d been a little less soulful and a little more sen-sible.

The Temperature – A quick poll has found that it’s pretty tricky to fall asleep on a half-reap’d furrow if one moment is baking and the next threat-ens snow. Wind chill factor and the hassles of depilation have seen inci-dents of stubble plains touched with rosy hue increase dramatically. One nameless fresher was overheard ask-ing, ‘What’s a gleaner?’

Dancing – The other sort. As in St. Tropez, sequins, Sir Brucey, slit-to-the-thigh, some-celebrity-you’ve-never-heard-of, some-celeb-rity-you-have-heard-of-but-who-is-clearly-going-through-a-dry-spell and every Saturday for the next three months.

Film Classifiers – Our last edition re-ported the banning of the ‘degrading and humiliating’ Human Centipede II. Now, after a spectacular about-turn from the British Board of Film Classi-fication, it will be released straight to DVD, with the proviso that less than 3 minutes of footage be removed. Good news for fans of tacky horror; bad news for suspiciously underdressed girls travelling in heavily wooded ar-eas at night.

Dear Dad...

Dad, we’ve only been here a week and already everyone seems to know everything about the Cambridge nightlife. We only have the one club at home (and it’s really more of a bus stop) - I don’t know which nights are good where, how much it all costs or how to avoid the advances of creepy sleazebags. Help!

Daddy replies: Fear not, my child - we all have to start learning somewhere and you’ve come to the right place. Follow this simple guide and soon you’ll be getting sweaty with the best of them.

Cindies - Officially named ‘Ballare’ (though never called that) Cindies is the quintessential Cambridge clubbing experience. A mix of tinned sardines and battery hens in terms of both roominess and fragrance, your night out will be Cin-fully fun (copyright Nick Morris). The playlist includes all your niche, indie favourites like S Club 7, Journey and The Lion King – if you don’t know all the words to Mr. Brightside, you’re in the wrong club. Come on Tuesdays and Wednesdays for maximum sweatiness.

Fez – the only club you will ever go to with scatter cushions. The theme is ‘creepy older European guys’ and the music gets good at around 1am. Drinks come in buckets – LITERALLY IN BUCKETS – so if all else fails you can get laughs by wearing one as a hat. Club can’t handle you. Head down that alley behind WHSmith on a Monday night for some Fat Pop-padaddy frolicks.

Life – aka ‘The Place’. With a ceiling so low even the Borrowers would have to dance on their knees, Life is the best Sunday night in Cambridge. A mar-ginally less cheesy Cindies, it’s a reliable night out if you don’t care about Monday morning lectures.

Lola Lo – formerly Soul Tree, LlL is the closest thing Cambridge has to a real, proper club with actual people and stuff. Downstairs plays a range of obscure hip hop and R&B while upstairs is more standard fare. The décor is Hawaiian (ie fake palm trees and wicker) and one of the dance floors LIGHTS UP. It’s like playing a giant version of Lights Out soundtracked by Rihanna. Seems to be open most nights, but Wednesdays are the most studenty.

And that’s it, sweetpea (unless you fancy venturing east to Wetherspoon’s) – five clubs for any sensibility. Unless that’s not your thing, in which case the college bar is nice. But seriously, come to Cindies.

NICK MORRISONGETS HIS ‘ON’

Sugar Daddy writes...Sweet, sweet advice to Newbies

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Ooohhhh New CourtOoohhhh New Court

Grew up at Trinity that’s famous as the place of The Fountain and The Wren,Noise was always loud, there are fellows all around and the cobbled streets

are mean.If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere that’s what my tutor says.

Seeing my face in Gardies or my name in Senate House found down on King’s Parade.

But when it comes to second year there’s only one place you need to be..Baby, I’m from New Court

If you’re from Wolfson, Blue Boar or AngelThere’s nothing you can do

Now I’m in New CourtThe Backs will make you feel brand new

The Wren will inspire youLet’s hear it for New Court, New Court, New Court

With the New Court crew there ain’t never a curfew, second-years work so hard

Such a melting pot, Mathmos, NatScis all the lot, in the chapel pray to GodHail a bike today, takes me down to Sedgwick over Orgasm Bridge

Some will sleep tonight others will puke up in an empty fridge.

I’m gonna make it by any means, get me to the top of the ballot please,Baby, I’m from New Court

If you’re from Wolfson, Blue Boar or AngelThere’s nothing you can do

Now I’m in New CourtThe Backs will make you feel brand new

The Wren will inspire youLet’s hear it for New Court, New Court, New Court

One hand in the air for the university,A 2:1? Big dreams all looking pretty.

No place in the world that can comparePut your gowns in the air, everybody say yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

Baby, I’m from New CourtIf you’re from Wolfson, Blue Boar or Angel

There’s nothing you can doNow I’m in New Court

The Backs will make you feel brand newThe Wren will inspire you

Let’s hear it for New Court, New Court, New Court

LUCY LASSMANGETS LYRICAL

If Alicia Keys had gone to Trinity...

Let’s hear it for New CourtOn the trail of the College Library’s hidden gems#1 – The Reign of the Phallus – Keuls (RR 252 K3)

Perfect for those in need of an aca-demical prod, this history of phallic iconography in ancient Athens dou-bles up wonderfully as a source of low-to-medium-grade ‘libranter.’ Sim-ply open to the title page and leave on your absent friend’s desk (potentially accompanied by planting a magnify-ing glass above the image), and watch them blush/giggle/grunt as they dis-cover the penetrating incision with which “nude woman carrying a large phallus” exposes Athenian chauvin-ism.

With childish chuckles as abundant as loukanika1 in an Olympian sausage-fest, the academic message is ren-dered somewhat superfluous. Well-evidenced, cleverly-thought-through argument for the hypothesis that an-cient Greece was a den of violent misogyny unnecessarily leadens the tone, and the author would have done better to avoid burdening her opus with its burgeoning heft.

That said, even serious academia can-not dampen the mood for too long. Giggle at the references to the Athe-nian esteem for ‘dainty’ genitalia (pg 67), snort at the vasework depicting ‘Hetaera with two dildos and a basin’ (fig. 73, pg 83) and find out just why the saying goes; ‘once you’ve tried pederastic, you’ll never go back.’

The Reign of the Phallus is perfect fod-der for procrastination and merriment. Use it well. 1 Yes, I made a greek sausage reference. Now bite my probably-in-correct conjugation.

Wrenegade

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Hello ducklings, a new year and once again your friendly neighbourhood Kate is coming to the rescue of all you newly traumatised freshers. By now I expect you’ve learnt the basics, like how to lie like a pro in an essay cri-sis - ‘I have it, but my printer’s only printing yellow so you can’t see the words’. True story, minions, though without eyes the size of the average bush baby I can’t guarantee your suc-cess replicating it. But now to the se-rious stuff. For the fifty members of your year who’ve mastered the art of not wandering around in their under-wear solving equations (yes I’m talk-ing to you, A floor fresher from WPR night) the future is bright. For the rest

of you, unless you look exceptional in Mr Men boxers, here is your new guide to life - how to be a massive eff-ing deal. You’ll be so cool you might even get to swear in print.

1: Create a hookThe first thing any aspiring Mas-sive Deal needs is something to en-tice people, and without any natural charm or charisma this must be physi-cal. Hence your need for a hook. And we’re not just talking your run-of-the-

mill refusal to wear underwear/ tattoo-ing a picture of the master’s buttocks onto your forehead. We’re talking genuine physical disfigurement. Vary-ing between enraged religious cleric and fictional pirate chic it’s a versatile look. For extra points look confused and tell people you were just follow-ing the peter-pan collar trend to the next extreme. And murmur darkly something about the fountain when they ask what you did with the hand. 2: Advertise yourself No publicity is bad publicity, so start spreading those rumours about your-self now. But make ‘em crazy, like you have the uncanny ability to pre-dict who’s getting a first by your one night stands. Or if you feel a bit more

subtle, say nothing at all, just learn the art of the ‘almost suppressed smirk’. Then when people start asking who put rohypnol in the water dispenser, refuse to make eye contact and laugh softly to yourself, slowly backing into the shadows once more. Or just do as I did and flash

the year below’s matric photo. Take a close look at the far right. That’s not an arm.

3: Acquire an air of mysteryWhen you next have a free half hour, go pose next to the gargoyles in Whewells, still as a stone. Then when people ask you what you’re doing, open one eye, maintaining a slight and constant shudder, then tell them you’re waiting. If they don’t immedi-ately start fumbling for a rape alarm/

convenient brick and back away, the answer to ‘who for’ is simple. Breathe heavily and let out a slight giggle be-fore looking wildly around and whis-pering ‘the others’. If you’re a Doctor Who fan this may even be accompa-nied by a breathily lingering ‘better not blink’ before resuming the freeze-frame.

4: Get rid of the competitionNow, whilst making yourself known is crucial to the exercise, so is elimi-nating anyone who might be an even bigger Massive Deal. Luckily for you, Cambridge has many excellent re-sources for murder. If your target is a boatie, leave a strategic trail of bloody feathers and webbed footprints (there’s bound to be a mathmo who can help) leading back to the river. Then start a myth about how one of the coxes had a liaison with a particularly vio-lent swan and the progeny just won’t stop killing until it finds its mother. Or if they’re a geographer leave them on top of a bloodied map, covered in multicoloured gashes. It’s not the first time a crayon’s gone feral.

5: Lie ruthlessly Lastly, no Massive Deal gets anywhere without the uncanny ability to lie without remorse. For example: Did that fresher you seduced have a gap year? Yes he did. Are you developing a thing for slightly underage boys? No I’m not. Are you somehow college re-lated to them? What a ludicrous sug-gestion. (Apologies to my college family, who I haven’t slept with. As far as anyone can prove). If you need evidence that lying really works, just think about this article. Almost none of it is true. And yet somehow by ly-ing shamelessly to you all I’m getting published. Massive deal? Oh yes.

KATE PFEFFERHUGE

Your Guide to Becoming a Massive Deal

How To...Get Around Like Grantham

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For the first review of a brand new year, I have decided that there is nothing so healthy as a good dose of introspec-tion (excepting Special K and a splash of Pepto Bismol, of course). Therefore, at the end of this most glorious of freshers’ weeks, I must reflect on my own conduct and, in particular, my newly avowed aim to go on the hunt for that most attractive breed of uni-versity student. Yes, this week I have indeed been on the prowl for a fresher so fresh that you can still smell the Sainsbury’s own brand crockery.

It is a truth universally ac-knowledged that once one reaches a certain point, the antics and general embar-rassing behaviour associated with freshers’ week becomes an increasingly distant mem-ory. For first years, parties are a crucial facet in that survival race to find a social group, while second years can smugly enjoy the WPR and club nights safe in the knowledge that they have emerged from the wilderness with both a ‘tight’ group of friends and an unquenchable thirst for VKs.

However, once the initial joy of the Cambridge experience has worn off (week 2 of second year), students are left with a stark choice. At 7 o’clock, third years and above may be seen slinking off to their nicely decorated rooms, donning their well-worn slan-kets and catching up on Antiques Roadshow, gently sobbing at the loss of their youth and the beauty of a well-oiled oak cabinet. However, for others, this is not enough. Instead of quietly lusting after Fiona Bruce, they choose to step out into the first week’s programme and bag themselves a

beautiful fresher beau.

I was aware from the beginning of my complete lack of experience at this art. Some at Trinity devote their latter scholastic years to the pursuit of the delightful youngsters: many a post-graduate dissertation has been based on the premise that ‘this must be easier now I have a beard and a house.’ But I wanted to set myself apart and instead tread the even more difficult line of the socially acceptable fresher pull. I

would not dazzle these impressiona-ble youths with my Great Court room, acquaintance with the catering staff or the considerable college clout of be-ing a weekly contributor to Travisty (hey hey). Instead, I would meet these freshers as equals and hope that for once, being five foot four might serve as an advantage in the hunt for gentle-men-folk.

Burrell’s would be the place to do it, when the disorientating multitude of habitats and the omnipresent camou-flage of sweaty face paint might mask my ability to legally purchase alcohol in the USA. Thus I donned a suitably unthreatening Bulbasaur costume, paying particular attention to the tex-ture of my hump and the snap of my vine whip, and dove into the affray. I

positioned myself within the pack us-ing that tried and tested tactic perfect-ed by the lions of the Serengeti plains: smiling at people as if to say, yes, we definitely met at Matriculation Dinner. What about that gong business, lol?

This disorientation of the prey allowed for a casual flash of my plumage as I sized up the juiciest joint. This turned out to be a disconcertingly limber young man, sporting a furry onesie and a pair of jauntily skewiff donkey

ears. Naturally concerned that such an opponent might be too much for a mere un-evolved plant pokemon, I at-tempted to demonstrate my attractiveness as a freshers’ week squeeze, executing the LMFAO shuffle with aplomb and harmonising skilfully to Journey. Rivals were batted away by the sheer persistence of my personal questions and tastefully ironic eye-rolls at nearby drunkards. My Giddy Aunt. It was on.

However, soon it was that time of the night when the weary dispersal of the Porters led Garret Hostel Lane to be flooded by the surreal migration of Disney, Marvell and DC Comics char-acters returning to their native habi-tats. I knew that the crucial moment had arrived. Turning to me in the misty Cambridge dawn as we crossed that fatal threshold of Great Gate, my fine fresher fellow was lost for words. Until finding some, he asked me that long awaited question. ‘So, is it true that you have Freya Berry’s email address?’ Curses! I have concluded that more time is needed to perfect my tactics – perhaps next year, Squirtle will be a more attractive proposition. Better start applying for post-grad...

EM THURSTONFEELS A LITTLE FRESHER

How to bag yourself a first-yearOut with the old? Get [in] with the new...