Nick Morrison

Ask people about the Wolfson Party Room (WPR, pronounced ‘whoopah!’ – think Chandler’s whip noise in Friends) and some might tell you it’s the modern, stylish centre of ents and bops at Trinity. They would be wrong. In reality it’s more like a cross between an Austrian basement and a dingy storeroom – but that doesn’t mean you can’t have a good time (occasionally). Residence of such Friday night staples as ‘Back to School’, ‘Anything But Clothes’ and the creatively named ‘Halloween’ and ‘Christmas’ WPRs, this rave cave serves as a cheap and easy venue for cheap and easy students seeking the same. While Burrell’s may be less cramped and sweaty, the WPR has the obvious advantage of not needing a shuttle bus to get there. Trinity Blue flows (or kind of oozes), people struggle to see each other in the dark and bad decisions are made over in the back corner – but this isn’t what the WPR is all about. The heart of the WPR is the clientele it attracts, and these can be split into three broad categories: First come the mathmos and recluses. They tend to shuffle down the grubby staircase at around 9:15pm, preceding the arrival of staff, the DJ and anyone else. For them, the WPR is a safe alternative to going out in the real world: the people are a bit less scary, the music not quite as loud and escape to a warm, comfy textbook is mere yards away. These pioneers tend to wander around confusedly for up to forty five minutes and then disappear before the next group enters the abyss. Between ten and half ten come the masses. Having bravely sewn together some cabbage leaves into a veGagan dress or modelling a skirt that doubles as a length of string, they enter expectantly, eager to see the incredible costumes everyone else

will no doubt be wearing. Things become awkward when they realise, aside from that girl in the Sainsbury’s bag culottes, normal clothes seem to be dominant. Unperturbed, a few cheeky drinks and they’re on the dancefloor, inhibitions abandoned. As long as the alcohol flow is moderate but regular, a good night will be had by all.

Finally are those who don’t come at all. “The WPR? Really? Why would I go to that? I’d have a better time if I had renal failure.” A good point well made. But clearly the charm and attraction of the WPR lies not in its useless bar stools or inexplicable odour, but in the fact that it’s full of Trinity people – and we’re awesome. Come to see that mathmo take his first step towards manhood with that moustachioed boatie girl; wonder at the unexpected dance moves of your supervision partner; spot the easy prey by the blueness of their tongue. The WPR: like being trapped in a basement with your friends and a disco ball. What’s not to like?

Issue No 34

The Independent Trinity Newspaper since 2007

Opium 5

Overhearing 2

Oracles 8

Kindly sponsored by

travisty.co.ukFriday 4th March 2011

You say ‘Woop’, we say ‘Pah’...

A Meditation on the Philosophy of the Wolfson Party Room

6

Hurray! THe WPr in PHoTos. JusT like THe neW york Times P6.

6

Objectification ahoy! Weiszy on Social Harpoon

2 IN BRIef friday 4th March 2011travisty.co.uk

Overheard...

>> Continuing our culinary-themed rumours, which dark-eyedsecond year has been lingering a little too long next to the till at hall? Let’s hope he gets extra pudding for his efforts.>> If there’s anything we at Overheard love more than food, it’s music.

If two of our best musicians want to form a duo, who are we to judge? Let’s hope they make beautiful symphonies together.

Letter from the Editor Being new to this Editor malarkey, I’m still unsure whether I’m meant to be changing my photo every week. As it is, I find Facebook stalking myself as mentally exhausting as it is dazzling, so this week I’ve replaced it with an image of Gaddafi to lend this publication a social political cultural angle. Apart from this, I realised I spent my last letter talking about me. I intend to make this a theme, but in the meantime I’d like to introduce Ben Weisz as Deputy Editor, writing about social harpoon in a non-bitter way, and Nick Morrison as Features Editor. Nick, Ben and I spent an hour lasta time writing the ‘on’ onto the end of ‘Morris’ after I misspelt it, so I hope you appreciate that. What’s been happening in Trinity these past few weeks? We survived week 5 (again), the WPR...occurred...and the Rice Dinner was probably very nice but I wasn’t invited so wouldn’t know. Anyway, have a super next few weeks, and try not to feel too empty once you’ve finished reading this edition.

Freya xx

Doing it for the kids: our advice to the next generation of Trinitarians

Nick Morrison: I don’t care if you’re my daughter, I will still penny you into oblivionRosie Lintott: Not dressed like that, you aren’tJack Lewars: If a man in rowing lycra approaches you without a minder, call the police.Also, college incest is a rite of passage in Trinity. Only the unpopular kids don’t do it. Freya Berry: Can you be my friend? Please?Rosie Lintott: Not dressed like that, you aren’t.Ben Weisz: Seriously: Everyone at Trinity is inspirational, including yourself. Make friends readily, judge nobody. By definition, you never know whereyou’ll find the hidden gems. Less seriously: Don’t anger the Porters, or the Bedders for that matter. It’s always dangerous to tempt those with 24hour access to your room keys into retribution.Jenni Heeks:There is a middle ground between beinguninhibited and really, really, really boring.Kate Pfeffer: At some point, when I’m very very drunk, I probably will lick you. Bring disinfectant.

friday 4th March 2011travisty.co.uk 3

No, Gaga, I won’t Just Dance Jason ehrhartBad RoMaNtIc

Two years ago I drunkenly stumbled into a dive bar in Vienna, a city I know little of since I spent the entirety of my time in the city either passed out on glunwein or throwing ice at the reception staff (possibly related). What stood out about this particular evening however, was the revelation that Austrians were somewhat forward-thinking with their musical choices. Poker Face and Just Dance are and shall always be gay anthems, 3 and a half minutes each of pure pop perfection, something for the homosexual community to embrace and it was this particular night in Vienna where my friend and I realised that Gaga was going to becoming a musical and cultural icon. And indeed she has become so. Flash forward 2 years and our friend Stephanie Pepperoni (or whatever her surname is, I don’t care) has taken over the world, with Number Ones all over the shop and a new commitment to gay rights. As one of the pillow-biting fraternity I have no problem with Gaga using her fame for the benefit of others but I would strongly question the reasons behind her motives. Of course, one might posit that she is simply doing it to help out a great bulk of her fans. However what I really take issue with is her self-appointed position of role-model for the planet’s youth. Gone are the carefree house party videos of Just Dance and in is the controversial, religiously reprehensible Alejandro. Using such graphic religious imagery seems to serve little other purpose than simply courting controversy and for someone

as talented as Gaga, this seems somewhat unnecessary. She appears to have learnt from the master of self-promotion, Madonna, which means that everything seems a little too familiar for my taste. Whereas Madonna became a gay icon early on in her career spending her time in the legendary gay clubs of Manhattan earning her stripes, Gaga has emerged on the scene by effectively appointing herself as the official spokesperson for Gays and encroaching upon Elton John’s remit with her Anti-AIDS campaigns. All very well and good perhaps, but Gaga’s shameless self-publicity incorporated with her morally tinged campaigns allows her a greater access to political soapboxes and therefore we are subjected to a constant barrage from the machine that is the Gaga. Judging by her latest effort Born This Way (which was THANKFULLY beaten to Number One by Adele, who has the sense to stick to what she’s good at) Gaga has become somewhat too complacent regarding her position at the top of the pop tree. Catchy, yes, but a good piece of music, absolutely not. Appealing to the Glee audience, Gaga tells us that it’s a gay anthem, something which homosexuals will be singing in years to come. I expect all Gaga-related elements to be contrived but this song is pushing the boundaries of what I find acceptable. If she manages to continue to write poppy, catchy songs I’m sure her career will flourish, but she must be careful because soon enough people might start to question her motives. I for one, Gaga, am not fooled.

Doing it for the kids: our advice to the next generation of Trinitarians

The WPR in photos...thank your stars there’s not much room Kate PfefferWoMaN oN a MIssIoN

Having set myself three deceptively simple goals at the beginning of January, I have thus far comprehensively failed them all: an unholy Trinity of my own ineptitude. Number One: Do well enough in my degree to someday be assured of an en-suite (complete with smug satisfaction and obnoxiously yellow rubber duck, of course). At this point however, I’m likelier to mistake the Fellow’s Garden for Sidgewick and end up sitting confusedly in that one shrub, wondering why clearly no-one else present is interested in the finer points of Milton, than to ever actually get to a lecture. Somehow I see all hopes of cleanliness disappearing, rubber duck mournfully squeaking out of sight, drifting down the communal plughole of my future. Number Two: Get fit. Here the sheer fact that at the time of writing this I quite genuinely haven’t left my room in several weeks to go anywhere but Hall and Cindies somewhat suggests an imminent and tragic mutiny from both arteries and liver. Number Three: Stop licking people when I get drunk. Yes, really. But inevitably the next time I get to formal and a five p lands in my food, whoever’s sitting next to me will undoubtedly start to look like a far more appealing dessert. Fancy a nibble? Why yes, yes I do. Just put me on a list and call me Rapey Katey. Now, having entered in on the path of destruction to the extent that my only contribution to society will be a hideous mass of slightly stupid, drunken cellulite, I began to think of my one hope to combine all of these into a single moment of triumph: a Gardies photo. One brief flash of artery clogging post-lashed fame, a memento for those who love me to glance at and remember me by when I’m living in a bin somewhere in South America. And thus begins three desperate attempts to redeem myself from my own future, if only in a momentary snapshot, hung on someone else’s wall.

Tuesday Night, roughly 2am. Abject, abject failure. Having convinced a couple of friends earlier in the evening that they too wanted to dress up pre-Cindies in what can only be described as neon pink boobtubes and enough glowsticks to faintly resemble a luminescent full-body rash, we happily trundled along to Gardies, confident in our ability to score a photo, albeit blinding the camera in the process. The look of startled (and slightly sickened) confusion we got begged to differ. Maybe the fluorescent-adolescent meets hideous futuristic STD look was putting people off the food, or maybe the failure of the neon pink boobtube to stay up was blurring the hazy boundaries between amusing photo and drunken exploitation. Either way, we clearly just weren’t making the cut. Wednesday Night, same time, same fail: As one does, decided at about 1am to go for a Casual post-Rice Dinner Gardies. Banquet, say you? Not unless it involves greasy chips and slight overtones of shame, say I. Once more, however, it seemed that even a slightly more respectable outfit just wasn’t doing it for Vas - and even the big eyes and slightly maniacal grin wasn’t making a difference. Have henceforth started hastily making plans to come in wearing a Gorilla suit wielding a banana. At this point have also been told that one can just ask for a picture, but have sneered at the concept - I want them to want me. All hairy 5’3 of my Gorilla-suited self. Thursday, midnight, blatantly desperate: Got lost on the way to Gardies. Genuinely. Hadn’t even been drinking, but somehow ended up walking for fifteen minutes past Life, having to stop and ask for directions. At this point even I realised I didn’t deserve a photo. Am now considering taking one myself and surreptitiously putting it up, a la Banksy, and with similar artistic merit. Or maybe next time I’ll just go naked. Find out someone was streaking Rose Crescent in a gimp mask? You heard it here first. Though in case of slight illegalities involved this is in no way a confession. Sayonara ducklings - a drunk, tired, and most probably naked Kate.

4 featuRes friday 4th March 2011travisty.co.uk

Sassy Gay FriendWhat’s HotGreetings loved ones,

I am now on my eleventh coffee of the day, and think that it’s time for a gossip. My predecessor, Miss Advise, is back from her travels for a while and she has been filling me in on how things work in foreign lands. Apparently, in Japan, to use just one entirely random example of another country, they have indoor and outdoor everything. Including dogs. Whilst it makes sense to have indoor and outdoor shoes, and makes a little less sense to have indoor and outdoor bags, having indoor and outdoor dogs seems a bit... odd. It also means that when you’re taking darling Pochi out for a walk you have to carry her whilst you do the walking. Makes our addiction to Katie Price, and our predisposition to include Martin Clunes in all light entertainment, look normal. Martin Clunes. Martin Clunes.

The culprit

Meanwhile, back in England... Our new TCSU are settling in nicely, bestowing us with timely and informative emails on a regular basis. Think... timely and informative emails with a light drizzle of rainbows and nymphs. Who wouldn’t want that? I am a particularly big fan of our new Computing Officer’s. Think... news about surveys and science events interspersed with sci-fi chat and threats to your existence. Fab. Trinity College was (as ever) home to the annual Rice Dinner, where a certain member of the college team was spotted getting friendly with ‘my type’ during the dinner. I do love a bit of forbidden romance, though unfortunately one would be loathe to call it a ‘perfect’ night as the menu was somewhat lacking the top quality we all know and love. Endive with lamb and gravy? An unidentifiable cheese item – was it pudding? Cheese course? Breakfast? No port?!?! Get a grip. The guests did get utterly hammered, however, so, to paraphrase the immortal words of A Knight’s Tale, we took the good, with the bad. And it’s called a lance. During said Rice Dinner, it came to my attention that the third years are really, really boring. Not conversationally boring. Or, should I say, their conversational lack of panache isn’t what this is about. No, what I am talking about is the fact that the numbers of third years partaking in gossip worthy action has dramatically declined. Of course, members of TCE are excused from this claim (They! Are! TCE! I said They are TCE! Lads! Lads! Bant.), as well as a certain Travisty contributor who is currently sliding downwards on what can only be termed a Slut Spiral. Everyone else, however, is either working hard all of the time, already settled in relationships, or too busy getting a job to be arsed doing anything interesting. Oh, Ken’s Kronicles! How I mourn thee! Finalement for now, there’s a show going on at Magdalene College from the 2nd to the 5th of March called ‘Cabaret’. I don’t know if you knew, but ‘Cabaret’ features fairly highly on the list of Things What Gays Like. Just below Shirley Bassey and three places above Lady Gaga and Elton John’s duet of ‘Your Song’. Also, in it are two regular Travisty contributors, getting their grind on. ‘Uh! I like That!’ in the words of Beyonce. You should go and see it. It’ll be good.Until next time,SGFx

>>the caribbean cake stallIn the Market Square on Sundays, where that dodgy clothes place usually is: cookies, pastries, buns, lemon drizzle cake, all with an official hint of West Indian yum. Airee. >> RAG fellows’ formalOn the 8th of March, get the chance to be served by your supervisor when an undisclosed list of gung-ho fellows volunteer as hall staff to raise money for various RAG charities. Rumours of rollerblades are unconfirmed. Tickets go on sale this week. >> democRAcyCol. Gaddafi calls for the purging of his own countrymen. Even in a media blackout, the scale of casualties in Libya is shocking. Mercenaries are allegedly being flown in from sub-Saharan countries for the express purpose of violent suppression. Fight on, Benghazi. >> justin bieber Gets shotViolence you can approve of. The nipper’s CSI demise attracted over 11 million YouTube hits in 5 days, and it ain’t the acting that’s pulling us in. As one ecstatic muso puts it, “It’s the ultimate wish-fulfilment!”

>> fashionNever mind the abundance of baroque prints, calf-length skirts and jazzy textures at LFW: did you SEE the sexy thesps on the front rows? Burberry had Sam Claflin, Matt Smith (matter of taste) went to Vivienne Westwood, while Mulberry snagged Benedict Cumberbatch. Swoon.

friday 4th March 2011travisty.co.uk featuRes 5

What’s Not>> the non-winnerToo many good films, too many contenders, only one Oscar. Peter O’Toole is the ultimate victim of this: 8 Best Actor nominations, 0 wins. But you know how it goes when Lawrence of Arabia and To Kill A Mockingbird are released in the same year...

>>relative GeoGRAphy The Fitzwilliam is, I feel justified in saying, quite far away. Imagine my surprise to be notified that the junction between Herschel Road and Adams Road will be closed for sewage works. Where?>>Katherine howardThe ‘young, sexy’ wife of the mysteriously sprightly monarch finally loses her head. The Tudors reached the executioners’ highpoint when Sir Thomas More died with grace and dignity in Season 2. The Queens tend to get their sob on. Just like when Annie B got the chop, but with far fewer clothes. >> clothesWe’re just following ancient history. If I strip for you, will you strip for me? >> takinG the RApFormer MP David Chaytor has launched an appeal against his 18-month prison sentence for fraudulent expenses claims. It also isn’t fair to blame me for breaking that glass I broke, but them’s the rules.

This Issue’s ContributorsThe Travisty CommitteeEditor.....................Freya BerryDeputy Editor.............Ben WeiszFeatures Editor.........Nick MorrisWebmaster.......................Bo TianSecretary..................Lucy Lassman

Jason EhrhartJenni HeeksNick MorrisEm ThurstonOli Crawford

James ThompsonBen WeiszRosie LintottKate Pfeffer

rosie lintotthoMe couNtIes coRResPoNdeNt

Won’t you come home?

Of the thirty seconds it took me to find the Wikipedia article on “Home Counties,” at least fifteen of them were spent pondering why I have such a problem with being from Surrey – if indeed you can say I’m “from Surrey”, because I was actually born in Hong Kong, which is Surrey with typhoons and decent tailors and far fewer footballers. You may also realise that Hong Kong has one of the world’s deepest natural harbours, a ginormous statue of Buddha on Lantau, and some connection to Opium. No one really fights Opium Wars in Farnham. It was not always so: because of its proximity to London, Surrey has been close to (if not always involved in) some vaguely exciting stuff. If there was a King Cymbeline, he probably lived just across the Thames. John Donne lived in a tower near Ripley for a few years after his ill-received marriage, though the tower now stands in the garden of a typically Surrey new-build house. Even Farnham has witnessed some history: Alfred the Great’s son Edward fought off the invading Danes from there in 892. And yet... Around where I live (in Cobham, where there is plague in Jane Austen’s Emma), it’s quite popular to blame the naffness of the place on the recent influx of footballers, since the Chelsea training grounds are nearby at Stoke d’Abernon. With footballers come wives, decorators and journalists. Every house is now a “mansion”, and the secretly delighted Esher hausfraus complain that they can’t move their Beemers for La Perla boutiques. Roman Abramovich allegedly sends his kids to my prep school. I find

this quite amusing, but only because it’s not my school-run that the Hummers are delaying. Maybe it’s a problem with me: I am fundamentally opposed to the word ‘mansion’, and as much as I applaud variety, Cobham High Street really doesn’t need four salons. It also feels rather doldrummy, everything being beige. (Before anyone gets upset and says “You think Epsom’s bad? Try Sheffield!”, I’ve been to Sheffield, and I got chewing gum stuck to my skirt. The dry cleaners were not impressed.) ‘Almost in Kent’ is how one of my schools was described, though this was on par with calling Alsace ‘almost in Germany,’ inasmuch as often it was. ‘Practically Hampshire’ sounds far more fun than ‘Haslemere’, and I suppose it is a Home Counties characteristic to want to live somewhere else – either actually in London or in a county further away from it. Surrey is a county of borders. Its very name is derived from its original meaning of ‘south of the river’ (that is, the Thames). Perhaps once your boundaries are so clearly in view, it’s perfectly natural to want to overstep them. I was not at all surprised to find that Surrey is one of only three counties (alongside Kent and the now-defunct Middlesex) to have been classified as a Home County in every Post Office, Traffic Board and Electricity survey since 1851. There’s something quite alright about Kent, in theory, though it balances out: on the one hand, it’s called “the garden of England”; on the other hand, Bromley. Until I leave home, which may be never, I’ll be in Surrey. At least it isn’t Berkshire.

6 coMMeNt friday 4th March 2011 travisty.co.uk

The WPR remembered...thank your stars there’s not much room

oliver crawfordthe PaP

Subject WarsEnglish students: Literally useless?

James thompsonhIgh-PoWeRed

I’ve been working really hard recently: I spent the last three days lying in bed and walking around Cambridge ruminating... about life ... and literature. Occasionally I am disturbed by the profundity of my thoughts. Today I decide to treat myself so I go to Hall for breakfast just before closing. About two hours later, after my seventeenth cup of coffee, I have enough energy to drag myself and my self-consciously intellectual pile of books to Sidgwick. Sartorially I have to strike a difficult balance. I need to look distinctive and alternative, but mustn’t appear to be trying too hard. So I’ve put on a designer coat and some skinny jeans, stuck a paperclip through my ear piercing, and dispensed with my comb. In the English Faculty library, I play with my hair and look around to see if anyone is looking at me, but whenever I catch a guy’s eye, he looks away. So I look at my reflection in the window and worry that my face really is that flat.

I have a supervision for which I am supposed to have in-depth knowledge of Eliot’s oeuvre. I get a three-page summary from Wikipedia and my supervisor claps delightedly at my originality and intellectual acuity. I’ve been thinking about what to do after I graduate. Daddy said he would pay for my MPhil, but I was thinking of teaching: preferably not in a state school. Or maybe acting: I’ve got three auditions this evening, or rather a three hour stint in the ADC bar. It’s gruelling.

friday 4th March 2011travisty.co.uk coMMeNt 7

Survival of the fittest - Social Harpoon dissected

(Ed. note: I absolutely did not commission this article as an ode to myself.) Roasting swans. Impaling Trinitarian Coxes at crucial moments in (possibly fictitious) 19th Century boat races. Vetoing plans to film THAT scene in Chariots of Fire in Great Court. Overwhelmingly (65%) not giving optional donations to charity when buying May Ball tickets. What bile could St. John’s College possibly cough up to top that list. The answer - Social Harpoon.

Designed by a Johnian, the premise of the site is simple. Connect with it on Facebook, and you’re presented with the option to rate guys, girls or both. You’re then faced with round after round of head-to-head profile pics. The site nicks your friends’ facebook photos and makes you compare your them- voting on who you think is fitter. Your friends then receive a ranking, based on how often they were preferred.

So far, sounds degrading, objectifying and encouraging users to view their group of friends as a cattle market. Sounds like fun. Logging on to Social Harpoon for the first time, my first choice was an uncomfortable one - who do I think is fitter, some randomer from Canada I met once, or my 60-something second-cousin? Riiiight...this was going to be a long haul.

Then, I spotted it. The god-forsaken little green box in the top right-hand corner, which ranked a selection of friends on how likely they were to beat me in a comparison. It looked an awful lot like I was ranked lower than ourGlorious Editor, Freya ‘Massive Deal’ Berry herself. 54.9% of people would rather, would they? This was not on. Something had to be done. One more click (this time forced into another awkward choice between an eleven-year-old and a teddy bear) and I discover that a certain rugged,self-consciously well-spoken comedian and darling of the ADC was again preferred to me by 54.7% of users. Bollocks to that. They’ve obviously never sampled a slice of my Bennett.

Part of the witchcraft of Social Harpoon is that the more you compare, the larger the list of people in the Horrid Green Box. A few more clicks (a poster for an ADC

production versus one of my brothers) and up popped a tantalising snippet of hope! Turns out that 83% of Social Harpoon users preferred me to a certain sardonic rugby captain. The more I clicked, the more I found out. Apparently, 66% of our mutual friends think that Male Welfare Officers get fitter year on year, though I was no match for either member of an inseparable pair of German second-years. The clicking became more frantic, the list grew longer, one picture blurred into the next. The frustration, however, remained. Freya Berry remained tantalisingly close, yet firmly out of reach.

What had I become? A friend-objectifying, picture-clicking fiend. Was my college daughter fitter than my college husband? Was my DoS fitter than the chaplain? Why did it matter? The comparative reactions were also shameful. Why was I so pleased to learn that the sort of people who pore over Social Harpoon tended to think I was fitter than one of my good-looking friends? Why did I see Freya’s supremacy as a challenge?

To its fans, Social Harpoon is a casual procrastination device, harmless and fun. It isn’t. Sorry to end a light-hearted article with a serious message, but be careful when you use it. Don’t slip into the paranoid comparisons, where physical attractiveness is the benchmark in some competition with your friends - there really are more important things in life than being as fit as Freya.

Ben WeiszhavINg a Whale of a tIMe staRgazeR

8 RevIeW friday 4th March 2011 travisty.co.uk

Pre-Review: The Oscars and Bieber

em thurstonhavINg a lot of PuN (soRRy)

em, our stargazer, looks into the future and predicts the oscars. withunnverving accuracy.

Critics have been left slightly unimpressed by events on the world stage over the past few weeks. The predictability of the plot and the stereotypical characterisation of the dictators irked James King of the BBC: “While the cinematography of Libya was initially quite interesting , frankly Egypt lacked the punch and mis-en-scène of the First Gulf War. Two stars.”

However, the Academy Awards last Sunday provided an entirely new and unexpected story twist that has sparked rave reviews. Following the unworldly chaos that descended upon the Middle East like Henry VIII upon a buxom nobleman’s daughter, international affairs reached an astonishing crescendo as the entire North American continent was overpowered by a well-dressed, sharp-tongued and distinctly polite military coup.

While the events of the past week may take literally millennia to fully understand, owing to her latest Travisty assignment this reporter happened to be on the scene in Los Angeles to watch events as they unfolded. The warning signs were perhaps staring the United States government in the face; LA was permeated by red and gold militaristic regalia, shining gold figureheads had been erected along a Via Triumphalis as scarlet as the faces of the deposed Congressmen would later appear.

Still, the Oscars initially began much as expected. Never Say Never’s visual effects team received well-deserved recognition for their efforts in maintaining the illusion of Justin Bieber’s prepubescent state.

However, eyebrows were raised when Bieber proceeded to win the awards for Art Direction, the coveted ‘McClassic’ and the Best Foreign Language Film. Nonetheless, it was not until Bieber received a fifth commendation as the Best Actress in a Supporting Role, a category for which he was not even officially nominated, that the evening intensified. His incensed rival, Helena Bonham Carter, decided that enough was enough and changed the fate of America forever.

Together with her now on and off stage monarchic life-partner, Colin Firth, she declared the vote invalid under international law and, using only her old-world authoritative tone, overthrew the entire United States government and enslaved the remainder of the continent to her infectious English vivacity. Only Mississipi was excluded from the new ‘ZimBonhambwe’, when it was deemed to possess more ‘s’s than was proper. Hugh Grant was instantly declared illegal and Jonny Depp compulsory, while the ‘Darcy Youth’ has begun work in producing a generation of children with dark eyes, pale skin and an overwhelming compulsion to jump in lakes.

Supporters of the new regime believe Col and Nell to have shown true grit in the inception that lasted only 127 hours, while others consider Firth a black swan whose tangled social network will not last beyond the new king’s speech. Being an historian, this reporter does not consider this turn of events Lestrange; in fact, as the new Interior Minister for Liaising with Tim Burton she has found it prudent to hastily rename herself Emily Firthston. And the winner is? The King’s