Harriet Jean Evans takes a look at the social commentary of the past, and explains why she believes it just doesn't matter.
Our anonymous blogger reflects on her attempts to have a student Christmas... and how she came to the conclusion that home-made is always best.
Gillian Love urges you to vote 'No' to the motion to replace Women's Committee with a 'Gender Equality Committee'.
Ahhh... YUSU
Whilst drinking my green tea and munching on my falafel and divine vegetarian chip lunch (they taste so so good!) in The Courtyard last week, I found myself musing on the elections; so many hopeful candidates, all equally certain that they’ve earned the stripes sufficient to warrant a realistic shot at taking on a role in YUSU. Ahhhh YUSU. Such a nice acronym I’ve always thought. It rolls so satisfyingly off the tongue! Like water off a violent goose’s back. Just magical.
Y’ is for ‘York’. And what is York without YUSU?! ‘U’ is text speak for ‘You’. Because it’s all about you! The students. At the heart of everything they do, is the welfare of the York student. Awwww! How sweet of them! ‘S’ is for ‘superb.’ Because they’re just superb aren’t they?! ‘U’ is for... erm... ‘You’ again. Because it’s doubly important of course!
Good luck to all of you running and may the best candidates win. All the best to the eventual winners whoever you are! Go forth and continue the glorious work that the York You Superb You do!
Writing Lyrics: Brandon Flowers Style
“Arghhh!!” Flowers sits bolt upright in bed, his perspiration-soaked vest clinging to him like Bez to the Ryder brothers. “It happened again!”. “What did?” says the scantily clad girl dosing next to him. “A horrible nightmare!” replies the troubled Killers lyricist. “Pass me that pad and a pen from the bedside table will you?” He takes a swig of the now luke-warm Carling he finds next to the bed and lights a cigarette.
He looks at the girl. “It helps keep me sane” he mumbles, taking the pad from her hand as they exchange embarrassed looks. “I dreamt of a spaceman” says Flowers; furiously jotting things down now like a possessed medium briefly in contact with the spirit world. “He wanted my blood type” he adds. “Why on earth would a spaceman want your blood type” chips in the girl but it’s too late.
Flowers is deep in thought now, and her offering of reason falls on deaf ears. Brandon continues, frantically now: “He ripped me from my bed! He kept saying: ‘The soulmaker said it will be ok.’” “Hmmmmm” says the girl, as she swings her legs from under the covers and perches next to him on the edge of the bed. “You know, these troubled nightmares seem to be happening more and more frequently.” “I know” he says, tapping the ash from his smouldering Marlboro Menthol. “The other night, I dreamt I was back in Sam’s Town. I met a man. He was very mysterious and offered me advice. He told me that if I lived a fulfilling life I would go to Heaven.” “Jesus!” the girl retorts. “No” he replies. “He didn’t look a thing like Jesus. He was so softly spoken; a real gentleman. I looked at him in awe. It was like I was young again.” Flowers gazes at something invisible to the rest of the world on the other side of the room.
He closes his eyes. “Am I human Kelly?” says Flowers taking a drag of the cigarette. “Yes, of course you are” replies the puzzled girl. “Why on earth did you ask that?” He turns his attention back to the page in front of him. “I was just wondering if I was... Denser...”
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