After a week was bumpier than a golf cart ride around the Rad Cam, Rordon’s back from a leave of absence that even the OxStu Editors didn’t notice. But the Roast will never rusticate and Rordon knows his fans will be itching like Paris metro travellers for this week’s Roast. Although those bed bugs were hardly a worry for the Univ students back from a night out who can’t even get to their bed. This week Oxford’s streets were flooded with matriculating freshers lining up for 7 minutes and 20 seconds of Latin, whilst some new Union members wondered if they’d really just spent £300 on a library card and bar pass. Out in the big wide world Britain could only look on as another line it drew in the sand erupts into violence, and with misinformation laying on thicker than gravy, it’s time for some fake news you can actually rely on.


Orange is the new grotty beige it seems. Last week the Radcliffe Camera got a Jersey Shore spray tan courtesy of tomato soup connoisseurs, Just Stop Oil. As the first reporter on the scene, Rordon undertook his due duty and licked the freshy coated walls himself to confirm the orange was in fact paint and not Heinz tomato this time (other soups available). After gaining much notoriety for the bothersome habit of warning everyone about their impending doom, the protest group decided it was time to stand up to the core forces of oppression, that being some History postgrads writing on the 12th Century Ottoman fabric trade. According to OxYou sources, the protestors initially had considered glueing themselves to the floor of the Glink but were worried staff would just choose to leave them there. Rordon spoke to local amateur art group Just Start Oil painting, who were keen to distance themselves from any possible mix-up with the group, stating they would have much preferred a Prussian Green or Vandyke Brown colour choice. 


Be it the hip hop floor at Bridge or a bop at Balliol, it seems that the common consensus has been to forswear any form of anti-perspirant. Letting the molecules of pungent teenage spirit flow free, it has become so bad that I, Rordon, protector of our university’s fair nostrils, have taken up God’s own proverbial roll-on to bathe every armpit in swich licour (lynx). However, as I made my way to raid the shelves at Boots (Mitchum deodorant is on three-for-two!), I realised they have been utterly ransacked (the shelves housing the natural deodorants were noticeably untouched- even this fiend must know they don’t actually count)! Immediately I sensed that something can’t be right. With my own singed nostril-hairs as proof, I know for sure that you lot aren’t buying it all. So where has it gone? Something here smells fishy… (or onion-y, to be more precise). It seems that the perilous particles of pongy pits will continue to penetrate our city’s sweet air, posing a threat to unsuspecting innocents like me. Take heed, dear Oxonians, and hope the deodorant bandit doesn’t find the under-the-table Rexona dealer. (Warning-this doesn’t mean that I don’t think YOU shouldn’t! The air at Atik is already thick enough…)


This week Christ Church officials voted that the head of the college no longer needs to be a Christian Clergyman after top scientists now believe that other religions may exist.  Named after the most famous Jew of all time, Christ Church now hopes to broaden the possibility of College leadership from “other silly little religious beliefs”. In this devastating blow to the legacy of Henry VIII, critics worry that core Biblical values such as “No one whose testicles are crushed shall enter the assembly of the Lord” (Deuteronomy 23:1) will be out the window. With Biblical guidance abandoned, the College is expected to introduce its own guiding principles for students, with doctrine including: “Thou shalt not walk on the grass”, “Thou shalt only buy stash from the official drop” and “Any man found without a trust fund should be stoned to death”. In the meantime, all that the good Christian souls of Oxford can do now is look on as the JCR is converted to a strip club staffed exclusively by people with they/them pronouns (Rordon review coming soon).


Another day, another dawn, and another lecture in the English faculty awaits. Happy as Larry, with a missing bean coffee in hand, I mince through the hallowed halls, shoes squeaking merrily, ready to make direct eye contact with the lecturer at all times. There is no better listener than I, Rordon, the realest whoever was. I reach the comforting confines of Lecture Room C, but instead of the sweet scent of industrial cleaner, I find myself faced with a wall of stale mo(u)rning stench. The worst has happened! The lecture room is full. With a sea of shining faces staring up at me, I am faced with man’s greatest question: Do I tuck my tail between my legs and act like I never wanted to go in the first place? Or should I thwart my fear of awkward social interactions and squeeze myself into an empty space? Feeling brave, I choose the latter. I brace myself as I stride up to the emptiest looking row and take a deep breath. ‘Hi, would you be able to move up please?’ I say, flashing my most winning smile. It begins to slip off my face as the great wave of awkwardness proceeds to flood the room, for all I am met with is a singular, harrowing ‘Miaowww’.