Cleanse Our Common Rooms.

It is with some temerity that I venture to lay before you the doubts and despairs of a fresher whose College career has been short but eventful. However, as the Editor has thrown open the pages Of "Smad" to all, I venture to address you.

I confess that Beverley Nichols, Coward and the Sitwells—those bright young people of literature—give me cause for doubt and despair; sometimes I doubt them, more often I despair of them, but still more often am I left dazzled and bemused by their intellectual fireworks.

I thought such people could be produced in England alone, but I must admit that I was appalled to find people of the same type at V.U.C. glorying in their "tranquil consciousness of effortless superiority."

For instance our aristocracy is composed of such people as Count Riske, of Russia, M.A*, Lord Reardon de Proportio Representatio, R.C *, Sir Pertinaciry Plank, C. of E.,* and My Gawd Scotney, K.C.M.G.,* of Training College—all less dazzling than Coward and Co., perhaps, but having the same unsettling effect on the very young.

With such people abroad how can the tired student restore his wasted tissues by restful contemplation of the scenes of beauty around him from the depths of one of the men's common room chairs—always assuming, of course, that our super-efficient executive and club committees have not omitted to return them when quite finished with. The general scheme of decoration and ornament is somewhat lacking, but I am assured by a tall, fair man, who wears a light blue suit, with a contemplative air, that the men's common-room is the epitome of modern decoration—all is left to the imagination. Here, I think, an injustice has been done to us poor, benighted individuals who have neither the brains nor the imagination of our aristocracy. The aristocracy can view the place in the light of a beer garden or heavenly palace, according to their respective beliefs (Haeremai Club or Christian Union), but we howling lowbrows cannot project ourselves away from these sounds of strife and the torn-up scraps of last week's "Truth."

Perchance you, gentle reader, may say: "Why not close your eyes, and, if necessary, your ears." To that I answer that the effects of some lecturers upon me are so soporific that I dare not blink my eyes within an hour after their lectures have ended, let alone close them. As to closing my ears, I answer only this: have you ever noticed the high quality of the yarns told in I the Men's Common Room at V.C.C.?"

Besides, we all know that Scotney has a persuasive voice, Benjamin an insidious one, and Crossley an unforgettable one. When all shout, one must, shout in self-defence, even though it may mean drowning Harry Read's flute-like notes. Then there is a bright chap whom all know as "Doug," Fabian hurtling here and there, and Duff fraternising with the enemy, as personified by Kennard, of the Trust Office. Follow we the smell of Hefford's pipe—a smell he never seems to quite catch up, worse luck—and we will join a group in which Bailey is unburdening himself about the dole to Ralph Hogg, of that ilk, not Bannister, whom unkind fate has presented with a rhyme "tin cannister."

These fine fellows may serve as a set-off against our pernicious aristocracy's crimes, but, in addition, these lordlings, in their lust for gold, have not hesitated to rain down raffle sheets "Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks in Vallombrosa."

No sooner has a student met and surmounted the mountain of Boxing Club sheets than he is over- page 9 whelmed with Rowing Club sheets, till he would fain exclaim, "Hills peep or hills and alps on alps arise"!

I've not own a raffle yet, and an all-day student doesn't get much pocket money in his first year, and anyway, what is the use of a hamper to me? I get more than enough to eat in the Cafetaria.

*M.A., Morning After.

R.C., Recess Committee.

C. of E., College of Ejectors.

K.C.M.G., Kindly call me God.

Fresher.