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SMAD. An Organ of Student Opinion. 1932. Volume 3. Number 2.

"Why Not ?"

page 2

"Why Not ?"

With much clangour resounded in Christendom the praises of the stalwart athletes and athletesses who lately so gloriously contested for divers trophies and cups and spoons and suchlike culinary utensils. So he it, with Allah's Messing thrown in to hoot. But let it not be imagined that only these are deserving of seats in the Halls of the Mighty. Why, even while in paddock and pond they were emulating the grasshopper and goldfish or chug-chugging down the straight to break the tape in the name of decency—down in the Refectory something stirred!

Did ye not hear it? Sounded like a Belle in a china shop, didn't it? Not far wrong; just a faithful crew of Toilers of the Tea plotting a Matinee and the nightly Rendezvous provender. Unceasingly they toiled up to their elbows in slush and slime and grease and grime and pots and pans that the Tournament might be fed and that the wild cries of hunger from hundreds of yearning throats might be stilled.

Afternoonly and nightly they sweated—the men, that is—the women merely glowed becomingly, with the dew hanging heavy on brow and cheek, and who is there with palate so dead as to say that their deeds were less valorous than the prowess which made Tournament go with such a bang?

But WHY no trophies for them—WHY no shields—WHY no cups? Not that these noble workers have sought such baubles—indeed, their cry was often heard: "Why so MANY cups—ah, why?"

Still, don't you think duty so nobly done should receive honourable recompense—should be inscribed in the Scroll of Fame?

There's Helen, Queen of the Seven Seas of Coffee —"Was this the face that launched a thousand cups?"—Why not a Grecian Urn for her? And Eileen, who used her weight and by brute strength routed a horde of hungry brawny invaders of the pantry and drove them heller skelter forth, why not a Policeman's baton for her And Mary and Evelyn, who washed and dried many cubic yards of cups and dishes with very few ferkins of hike-warm water and very few square inches of humid tea-towel—why not a stately Cup of chaste design for them—no, that would be cruel, something to take their minds off their interminable tasks would be better—how about a Dish running away with a Spoon? Not only was every Rendezvous in the Gym lavishly fed like fighting cocks, but these same inspired caterers whose praises are being sung fed the Tournament Ball to such repletion that it is no wonder the dancers waxed fat and in the fullness of bread, like Jeshurun, wagged a wicked hoof!

Many other helpers in this particular sphere might well be mentioned, including an energetic push of men whose names are suppressed on account of a lack of trophies and space—but you get the idea—their performance is no less worthy of appreciation and recognition because it was useful and selfless rather than competitive and spectacular, and in part at least it may be said that, physically, the battles of the Tournament field were fought and won in the Refectory.