Salient Notes

Virginia Adams likes mountains. Nurtured under the gentle slopes of Mount Egmont, when she was wee she would frolick in the foothills and dream of mountain climbing. This life long propensity towards climbing steep hills has puzzled philosophers and student politicians alike, and Jessica Wilson (who is actually quite fond of little streams), has been quick to point out the philosophical implications of Virginia's fetish.

It apparently dates from the time when brother Geoff tossed her out of a speeding Chevy [unclear: ruck]. She landed in a Stratford bog, where she was rescued by Lorraine Wilson, passing by on a sheep rustling expedition, who mistook Virginia's head for a stepping stone, and squashed it firmly into a strong resemblance of Stephen A'Court.

Many miles away, the man himself, slumbering happily in that Mecca for Stratford bog escapees, Wellington, murmered existentially "Life is a tree tomato". Continuing inevitably along this train of thought, his fevered brow contracted into a sea of wrinkles as he visualised Caroline Massof, whose shape is not dissimilar to that noble fruit. A shadow entered into his subconscious, and his eyes opened slowly to focus on a bright pair of red trousers glowing in the dark like a couple of fluorescent saveloys. This could only mean.......Tim Brown.

But seriously now, Peter Beach hardly ever dresses in red, and anyway, he eats boiled mince. Simon Wilson, the last time he encountered this delicious substance, was heard to utter "Oh, [unclear: g] Who controls filing cabinets and typewriters? Protect me from this environmental hazard" "Ha ha", shreiked Andrew Ross, who [unclear: contine] "Any God responsible for blue plastic rubbish bags is unlikely to play the slightest attention to your inconsequential ramblings." A passing Rire Scotney, moderatley affronted by this attack on computer technology, turned the [unclear: er] while and unfortunate ad-manager into a [unclear: reaso] able facsimile of a 100 watt light bulb. Grant Gillat, peering like a bleary sphinx from the to of Rankine Brown, bemusedly peeled another banana and threw Kathryne Fleming to the [unclear: lio] on the pretext that she was just an English student, and anyway. Tori Quade, defender of [unclear: the] free, had just draped Mark Wilson over the bonnet of her killer VW on the grounds that he only like rock music because he can spell it.

Andrew Beach, a tiny bundle of fur given to speaking esoteric and rather poor Spanish, [unclear: could] only look on in horror as Danny Ashworth, beserkly angered at the unthinking cruetly of Tori, grabbed Graeme Robertson and poured [unclear: ac] of beer down his throat, provoking a [unclear: domestic] dispute between Nigel Parry and Alan [unclear: MacArth] whose beer it was. Even Fergus Barrowman's futile pencil sharpening was to no avail, and before we knew what had happened, Salient had been edited by a completely irrelevant Peter Beach. It was publihsed by VUWSA, but they really had nothing to do with it, and Wanganu Newspapers Ltd, Drews' Ave, Wanganui wish they hadn't printed it.