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

This week put the Broke in Pembroke with a Ball ticketing system delivering tasty schadenfreude to those of us who cannot afford £400 for a night out. It seems that choosing whether to pay rent or party it up is harder for the average Oxford student than choosing between Morocco and Geneva for their winter Vac. As Trinity Term draws closer, Rordons beginning to regret that this university is far too small to effectively ghost someone for the purposes of finding someone you can bear to think about introducing to your parents. Call us the British Library records depository because we are DOWN BAD.

Wolfson College to get Wizard Tower

In a quest for relevancy Wolfson College General Meeting has voted in favour of commissioning the construction of a Wizard Tower. The Wizard Tower will be the first of its kind since the Keble Wizard Tower was destroyed by St Johns scholars after the Keble Wizard was alleged to have cast trousers deletus on students using the Parks Road gate. In a statement to OxYou, Wolfson College’s President said he hoped the creation of a Wizard Tower would “bring added Hijinx and trickery which a contemporary forward-thinking College needs.” The College is now moving to elect its first Wizard, preferably one who is also confident driving a 16-steater Mercedes electric minibus.

Games Night at Oxford

An air of quiet excitement fills the room as Rordon’s friends pile in for games night. As everyone has a tutorial/ essay/ class in the morning, and no one can ‘waste a day on just being hungover’, it will be a sober affair. Sober, but not sombre. Upon the first round of the game, two of the fiercest competitors are already engaging in a verbal spar. “Hawaii is NOT a country, it is a STATE!”, “BUT it is a separate LANDMASS! Anyway, you are being ethnocentric in your deduction!”. “No, I think you will find I am RIGHT, and you are WRONG!” Oh dear, Rordon mutters, as his friend begins to turn blue. That is rather too tight a headlock for an average Friday night. But he thinks to himself “I understand”, he, too, is always right. As an Oxford student, he just could not possibly ever be wrong ever, he’s too smart. Returning from his reverie, Rordon watches fondly as his friend begins repeatedly banging his mate’s head on the floor.

Rordon Visits Blackwell’s

It was on a rainy, miserable day when Rordon, our scholarly young reporter, decided to take heed from the Bodleian’s stale fumes in Basil Blackwell’s heavenly halls. Having seen every English student ever (and Rordon means EVER) sporting the oh-so casual canvas bag (‘yes, I read, and yes, I am an intellectual but casual go-getter’ they signal), he wants to see what all the fuss is about. He heads straight for the fiction section, hoping to find a nice edition of the H.G Wells book he’d been eyeing up. After making sure to spit on the Colleen Hoover display, he seeks up his desired shelf, only to find the book is not available! Undismayed, he heads downstairs. My oh my! What a wondrous sight to behold! Book upon book hidden in nook upon nook!


Five hours later: Rordon exists the shop, dazed and confused, his bank account five hundred pounds lighter. In his clammy hands he holds two hardcover Judith Butler books. He has never been more confused.