Roast, Toast, and Soapbox

Roast

Your Mum Jokes

Listen up, and listen close. This is important.

Your mother wears combat boots. Prove me wrong. Your mother is so horrifying looking, according to recent studies, apparitions of her corporal form in the dreams of sentient beings are the leading cause of cult-related mass suicides. Sheesh. 

Hell, your mother is so goddamn large, the probability of her occupying any arbitrary point in space is 1. Huge. She’s got has so much mass, she dilates time.  

Your mother’s so fat, that she occupies infinite space; having no definable perimeter, and her centre point is at all space through the universe. In fact, your mother’s weight gain accounts for all observable red shift. That can’t be healthy. She’s a wombat.  

Your mother’s size is going to pose an actual health risk to not only herself but also the people around her. It’s concerning.  Get that woman under control, before it’s too late.

Muslim Taseer

Toast

Humanities Students

Oh, the people who study the humanities… the butt of jokes told by unwashed STEM-lords, by overdressed business students with overinflated egos, considered prime wasters of time and money. 

When will these people learn that there’s more to life than making money for some other person or corporation that doesn’t even know or care that they exist?

It might rustle some jimmies, but humanities students are important students in our universities. What has the businessperson or manufacturer contributed to culture? And then the artist, the writer, the philosopher?

Be though it may that humanities students are essentially paying £9k a year to say they can read, there’s a nobility in it. The utmost respect is garnered by throwing away that sort of money in pursuit of passion and knowledge, rather than profit and new ways to exploit the world and our fellow man.

This is all tongue in cheek mind – at least the parts directed at STEM-lords. I guess non-stick frying pans were a pretty useful invention.

Tom Leach

Soapbox

An Essex girl in Newcastle

When packing my suitcase to make the 300 mile move from Essex to Newcastle, I was sure to bring all 30 pairs of heels I owned, alongside every brand of fake tan under the Sun. 

To my horror, I arrived to a world of clubbing in Vans and every other girl in flared trousers. Sobbing to my girls over FaceTime, I couldn’t believe this was my new life. From the land of hair rollers to ragged Air Force Ones, I felt frustrated that the girls didn’t doll up to the nines in Oh Polly attire just for a night out to Market Shaker – for once I was the odd one out. Although the Toon has taught me that lashes really aren’t a priority when you’re three trebles down in Soho, maybe these Northerners do have more fun. However, I refuse to hang up the heels just yet.

Ruby Story Dartford

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Last modified: 11th February 2020