Sunday Roast is satirical and should not be taken as defamatory, nor does it reflect any political stance of the Oxford Student.

October ends with truly was a Hallowed-Ween, but any zombies looking for brains on the streets of Oxford were out of luck this week. Across town, people gathered to protest the culling of Merton students; hell is empty, and all the devils are here. Oxford was in the headlines again as ELAT-takers prepared to be examined on poetry analysis were instead asked to answer complicated questions about geo-political borders in the Middle East.

We can only apologise for the late Roast this week, Rordon has been hiding under a bush since he heard Pryzm break out Mariah Carey last Wednesday. We send our thoughts and prayers to anyone affected by the incident.


Busy scenes are witnessed around the first-year kitchens in Lancing College. Rordon, tactful as ever, approaches a young man wrapped in blankets. It appears that this poor undergraduate has become the victim of an ultra-rare fungus. As he tells Rordon, he was just going about his normal business, making his morning porridge, when he noticed an odd green shadow wavering across the ceiling. Curious as to where it was coming from, he decided to open one of the shared cupboards. As he already knew, his floor-mates weren’t always particularly hygienic, but the worst he had ever found was a mouldering fish-corpse wedged into the side of the fridge door. So, innocent and unknowing, he peered into the open cupboard. At this point, the young man stops talking. Rordon asks him what he saw, but the man merely blanches. His friend joins the duo, explaining what occurred. ‘Someone….someone had left brown matter in a tupperware box… we can’t be sure whether it was indeed human faeces or not. But what appeared to have happened is, that in the warmth and darkness of the cupboard, it managed to grow tentacles’. Those tentacles latched on to his face, leaving the poor man scarred for life.


It was time for a termly dose of organised fun at the OxStu staff golf trip. Surly all the greatest displays of athleticism require you dress like a substitute teacher. Golf is an acquired taste for those who can spend hundreds of pounds on equipment and then hundreds more pounds on a club membership to roleplay as plantation owners, all before you can debut your dad bod on the course. The flamboyancy of it all is surly a conspiracy by BigGolf to turn more of the British landscape into soulless background shots for life insurance and Viagra adverts. Alas, the OxStu summit was not on the glorious lawns of East Scotland but instead in dirty neon painted basement that undoubtedly looks like a torture McDonald’s with the lights on. Rordan’s skills were on full display as he flawlessly executed a remarkable slice-shank-bump-gambit to land a bogie-poopy-albatross, but no one could see in the 2% mood lighting, even if they were real words. The night was breaking down like a golf cart at hole 5. Rordon decided the honourable thing to do was just lie about his scores on the tally sheets.


On a chilly Saturday night, Rordon and his mates sit staring at each other, with nothing left to talk about, nothing left to do. Bored and listless, they begin to scroll through the trenches (aka Facebook). Suddenly, Rordon’s demeanour undergoes a dramatic change. ‘Lets go to Cowley!’ he beams. So, with little time to spare, his friends make their way to start the festive season off with a bang. Fireworks! After an arduous trek, the glamorous group reaches the entrance. Faces rosy and jolly, they join the queue. Only one more minute, and they will be inside! Rordon’s nostrils are set a-quiver as tendrils of smoke drift up his nose. Fried food! One more second, nearly there- aaaaaand- wait, what!!!! MUD??? Surely not! Rordon howls as his foot drowns in the sordid brown sludge. What foul, what vile tricks the world plays on him. The night is ruined. To end this traumatic anecdote, Rordon would like to ask: Why does the world hate him? Why does everyone want him to suffer? And WHY has this disgusting green mass not yet been covered in concrete????


Looking for some festive frights, Rordon headed over to the Pitt Rivers Museum. One can only hope they’re a little better at security than the British Museum, although Rordon can’t imagine who would be prowling around thieving one hundred rusty arrowheads (except for the people they were stolen from in the first place). The kind guide informed Rordon that the museum holds the university’s Anthropology collection, but Rordon is unsure what a 20ft Totem Pole and a first issue Uzi Machine Gun can teach the Oxford public about ants. Perhaps they were those massive Indiana Jones Ants, perhaps everyone here is just 30,000 ants in a trench coat. That would explain the dark dingy feel of the place.