Conforming to Stereotype
It's bite the hand that feeds you week here at the OxStu, so here comes the pain. The only thing worse than being an Oxford journalist is being dually raped by Satan's twin-penises, which ejaculate semen so burningly cold that you are condemned to split eternally apart. This is no glamorous 'meejja' lifestyle. OxStu hacks spend their weeknights in an office hotter than an Osama bin Laden's colostomy bag, typing out their scurrilous invective on Macintoshes that are technically inferior to an EtchaSketch. Seriously, these fucking computers crash more often than Stevie Wonder's helicopter.
The typical Little Clarendon St. journo is a professional mouth, sounding off like Zippy from Rainbow about how unappreciated they are and the appalling lack of political activism (either Left or Right) in this town. Most articles will begin "why, oh why, oh why..." and bemoan the inadequacy of other bemoanings around Oxford. Just wait and see the world put bang to rights when they edit Home and Garden.
Matters are no better for those underworked freaks over at Cherwell. Endemic under performance is the order of the day at St.Aldate's tawdry rag. As such, instead of writing quality copy, they fritter away the gruelling minutes of their visits to the office trying to escape the editorial policy of "punishment fistings". So when you see those pale, impoverished hacks riding the bus, wincing as you traverse a particularly unforgiving pothole, remember not to shake any of their hands.
As that childish sideswipe just demonstrated, the watchwords for staff at both student papers in this town are: slag off the other one. Our first writers' meeting here at the Student was basically a Clockwork Orange-style "re-education" session. Our eyelids were pinned back and a montage video of 400 Cherwell editorials was played on a loop. Even now, eight weeks on, I still get the urge to wear Cherwell entrails as a bandana when I hear Beethoven's Ode to Joy.
But the most irresponsible individuals at any newspaper are, without doubt, the columnists. We slime and drivel our way through 500 words every week, wasting irreplaceable trees with fictional details about our imaginary lives. How on earth do we get away with this? Penning elevated prose about college life like some worldly-wise bons viveurs, when our actual idea of a good time is four real ales and a go on the JCR arcade machine. Half of my student loan has already been pissed away defeating Scalazar, end-boss of Gauntlet Legends. Speaking of which, everyone is rightly annoyed at columnists' desperately dull in-jokes that no-one but their few friends can appreciate. So I guess it's like that thing Tim said in the pub last night. Oh, and we'll write anything for a cheap laugh. Fanny. See? Cartoon: Ed Scott
Conforming to Stereotype was a Conor Ritchie Production. Brought to you by the letter 'F'.
22nd Nov 2001