The Maths and Physics Society held their duo devigintal yearly dinner the other night at the Mockador.

The soup (we are at dinner now!) was a bit chilly, and Rickie said the fish reminded him of tepid filleted minute whitebait—but everything else was abundant and enjoyable.

The point of the whole affair is that 8 was so eminently respectable—there being a regrettable lack of bread rolls, bawdiness and beer.

Dinner over, the president staggered to his feet, clutching his [unclear: gastronomia] and attempted to make a speech. He got thoroughly mixed with professors and night clubs. His bribed, [unclear: Interjectors] made his speech much better than it might have been otherwise.

Professor Miles gurgled about the friendly spirit of the Club during the part eighteen years.