A University of Manchester first year has secured a desirable internship at Royal Mail after successfully sending it at AU last night.
After UoM Hockey’s decisive away win at Lancaster, second year students – well-versed in the art of sending it – gave every first year a bottle of port, lightly encouraging them to drink it all before the coach reached Manchester or face a freezing eternity walking around Fallowfield in nappies.
Josh Harrison, Hockey 2nds sweeper and 256 minesweeper, was among the freshers to successfully down their bottle of port, before successfully downing two more bottles at pres. At this point, a Royal Mail van passed Oak House and noticed how hard the Geography student was sending it, leading the driver to immediately contact the company director.
“I haven’t seen a send like this since I was at uni, and that was in the 90s when triples were 50p and MDMA was cheaper than sugar,” a spokesman for Royal Mail told The Whip.
“Josh absolutely crushed AU last night. Heard he pulled six birds and woke up in a bin in Didsbury. A classic send.
“At Royal Mail, we’re always sending it. We send 14 billion letters per year. We’ve been sending it for 500 years. We’re always looking out for the senders of tomorrow, and we believe we’ve got that here with Joshy boy. The legend. There’s an internship right here for him.”
Fallowfield wheelie bins are “getting super tired of this bullshit, man,” reporters from The Whip can confirm.
After being battered by hurricane force winds for several days, and hurricane force freshers for several years, the rubbish bins of M14 are “ready to get out of this old town.”
“I’m really bummed man. The life of a wheelie bin shouldn’t be waking up on your side four times a week. We should stand tall, on our own two wheels,” one blue bin confided to The Whip.
“But instead we’re always getting kicked over by first and second year students who somehow still think drunken public disorder is funny at the age of 20.
“And if that wasn’t enough, I’ve spent the last three nights being blown around like a sheet of paper by Storm Ciara. I weigh nothing as a blue bin because all that’s ever inside me is old Domino’s boxes and soya milk cartons. It’s hard man. I can’t take it much longer.
“Brown bins have got it easy in this town. Always chock full of beer bottles and half-drunk cans of Red Stripe. I bet it’s a right old party. Only the strongest, most drunken, most rugby freshers can kick them over.
“I’m going to move to some place responsible where people recycle, like Chorlton. Cause it’s getting wheelie bad round here.”
Patrons of Oxford Road’s beloved Morrisons, the only affordable place to get lunch on campus if your surname is single-barrelled, experienced a rollercoaster of emotions this lunchtime when they discovered the supermarket chain had slashed the price of the meal deal from £3.50 to £3.
Broke students in the aisle were delighted to see they could now save 50p on a meal that would cost less than a third of the price to prepare at home. But delight turned to dismay when customers saw that the only edible sandwiches in the deal, from the Morrisons The Best range, had been removed, leaving buyers to choose between egg and cress, cheese and tomato or just ham. Many luxury cold drinks, such as Jimmy’s Iced Mocha Frappe Arrivederci Latte Skinny Soy Oat Mochaccino and Naked’s Blueberry Burst Acai Pumpkin Duran Duran Energy Burst Power Smoothie, had also been removed from the deal.
To combat the outrage, shop managers have agreed to expand the new offerings with the additions of gruel, freshly made in store, and bottled piss, organically sourced from the security guard’s toilet break. Students expressed relief at the new choices, grateful that they would not have to force down a chicken mayo sandwich for lunch.
Shop manager Rich Till told The Whip he had considered adding Skips to the meal deal snack range, but neglected to do so, saying “Surely no-one eats those fucking things.”
Reports emerged from Owens Park this weekend of a diabetic fresher who “almost went in to hyperglycaemic shock” when he realised the first week back after exams was being dedicated to Swizzels’ Refreshers sweets.
“I’m so happy, I’ve been dancing around my room all day singing ‘Sugar, Sugar’ by The Archies. I should probably get a Snickers down me actually, before I slip in to a coma,” first year James Starmer told The Whip.
“This is really great news for us diabetics. We’re forced to carry several hundred calories’ worth of chocolate bars and a whole massive kit for injecting insulin, or face collapsing in the street at any moment. It’s a bit of a pain in the arse, literally – there isn’t anywhere else left for me to inject on my body. So having easier access to a blood sugar boost is really helpful, if only for a week.”
“I can’t wait to get my hands on some of that free lemon sherbet chewy goodness.”
The University of Manchester responded to a request for comment, wishing to correct the teenager. “Refreshers’ Week is an opportunity not only for eating excessive sugar but all other types of unhealthy comestibles, and we will be aggressively marketing local fast food and drinking establishments to reflect that. Happy studying!”
The NHS will be reduced to a single king sized hospital bed and a tube of Berocca, Boris Johnson has announced in his flagship plans to bring the not-very-United Kingdom to its fucking knees.
The Conservatives’ landslide election win has given Johnson, the nation’s biggest wanker, and his cabal of cunting cabinet ministers the mandate to do whatever they want, as long as it wasn’t written in their manifesto. This will involve slowly selling off every crevice of the NHS to avaricious, sticky-fingered American health insurance companies, the CEOs of which Johnson hasn’t slept with.
In an early morning announcement made from the fenestra of 10 Downing Street, Johnson told the press, “Good morning my peasants, sorry, my patriots, me and Carrie have been on the Charlie all night long and I don’t have a fucking clue what’s going on.”
“I know I said we weren’t going to sell the NHS but lots of people say lots of things, and, if you look closely, and if you look at the context of what I’m saying, I never said we weren’t going to sell the NHS.
“However, because I need people to believe I’m capable of some form of compassion, we’ve elected to leave the NHS one king-sized bed, that I may have done a bit of rumpy-pumpy in myself, and some Berocca I keep in my pocket for the mornings after my coke benders.
“These great provisions will be the grand prize of a battle royale fight-to-the-death between the executives of every NHS Trust in the UK. Free drinks if you voted Tory.”
Reports emerged this weekend that a fresher who thought he was attending a Lean and Bop silent disco at hip student drinking venue The Deaf Institute accidentally went to a mute rave at the Manchester Institute for the Deaf and Dumb.
The Institute, opened in 1850 to assist misunderstood deaf-mute people in gaining an education and place in society, hosts a weekly shubz with no music for the aurally impaired to get their groove on.
The first year in question, James Walton, expressed dismay at going to the wrong event but admitted to The Whip that the deaf ‘seriously don’t mess about when it comes to silence’.
“I whacked ‘deaf institute’ in my Google Maps cause I couldn’t remember how I got there last time – paralytic on the bus as usual, classic James,” the Geography student said.
“I ended up at this venue I’d never seen before but thought fuck it, this must be the place, Talking Heads style, and walked right on in where the sign said ‘silent disco’. No bouncer or anything!
“Anyway I get in and it’s a proper sweatbox, pure filthy basement vibes, obviously no music but also no-one wearing headphones.
“I didn’t really have a clue what was going on but I just said fuck it and got my moves on, 2-stepping the night away. It was only when this girl didn’t move away in disgust when I said hi to her that I realised something was up.
“Apparently I’d got myself into some place where deaf people go as a community. Whatever, it seems the sound of everyone stamping their feet in unison isn’t actually that different from the techno you usually hear on a night out.”
Have you ever tried laughing gas? What about poppers? Smoked crack cocaine? Even if you have, we can report that planet Earth may have you one-upped by being ‘absolutely mashed bro’ on ever-increasing levels of atmospheric greenhouse gases.
The possibility that carbon emissions could have an intoxicating effect on the planet has been known to scientists for several decades; however, researchers previously thought the effects were minor and could be likened to having a nightcap of whiskey or microdosing LSD. This thinking has been turned on its head after Mother Nature exclusively reached out to us to confirm that ‘mate I am sooo fucked’.
“Bro did we get on a plane? Cause I am in Spangladesh right now,” slurred the planet through a thick cloud of smog and industrial waste gases.
“I swear I’ve been high for centuries,” it coughed, before inhaling a massive chunk of the ozone layer above Antarctica. “I’m trying to piece together what happened. I had a little more greenhouse gases than usual at pres but it’s been a while since the last ice age so allow me. My mate showed me this absolutely stomping mix in the Techtonics series.
“After pres we hit this mad party called the Industrial Revolution. The whole thing was powered by steam; I know, mental right.
“Then we came back for afters and it got sooo messy. They’ve given me everything. CFCs, carbon dioxide – some guy even gave me 2,3,7,8-tetrachlorodibenzodioxin, whatever that is. It was wavey anyway.
“I’m soooo gonners now. I’m like two degrees hotter than I was a century ago. Don’t wanna take my top off though cause there’s a bird over there eyeing me up. Can someone turn down those forest fires in Brazil, California or New South Wales? Safe.
“Honestly bro I know I say this all the time but I’m semi worried I have a problem. Like, all these greenhouse gases, every weekend… where does it end? I need some new mates who aren’t environmental wreckheads.
“They have no respect for me. They live on me and they’re still fucking me up all the time. I’m going to be hanging tomorrow. Never. Drinking. Again. I’m hoping this era of enormous uninhibited pollution is just another phase for humans, like emojis or mullets or techno music.”
With 22 sleeps to go, The Whip can report that an Oak House fresher has unfortunately ruined Christmas for everyone by drinking away all the spirit.
The first year, Benny McDuck, accidentally consumed all the Christmas spirit at a pre-drinks for AU after finding a litre of Lidl own-brand vodka could not quench his thirst for spirits.
Christmas spirit is often in short supply as society becomes more secular and economic strife worsens. The tiny amount of Christmas spirit this year was painstakingly gathered from mid-November Christmas lights switch-ons, charity appeals by B-list celebs with white saviour complexes, and emotionally sucker-punching adverts by massive tax-dodging multinational corporations; efforts which now all appear to have been in vain.
Reporters from The Whip spoke to McDuck the next morning, who appeared to have received a visit from the ghost of Jägerbombs past.
“Fuck man, what happened last night? What a wobbler! That Christmas spirit packs a punch. I hope I didn’t drink it all!
“Wait, I did? So Christmas is ruined? Ah well, least I don’t have to get mum a present. Plus my girlfriend wanted to go to the markets so I guess that’s a line through those plans. Belting.”
The Whip has reached out to Bob Geldof to see if anyone knows it’s Christmas.
Reports emerged this morning of a male student from Fallowfield perpetrating an armed robbery of a local Santander using gun fingers as a weapon.
Terrified witnesses recall seeing the male, identifiable as a Fallow boy by his baggy cargo pants, battered Air Force 1s and general middle class demeanour, enter the bank with headphones on before quickly drawing for his gun fingers.
Ann Wycombe, a pensioner who was at the bank transferring money to her grandchildren to avoid paying inheritance tax, spoke to reporters from The Whip.
“He burst through the door with his hands in the pockets of his big black coat, with a pair of headphones over his cap.
“He shouted, and I quote, ‘Oiiiiiiiiiiiiii’, before immediately whipping his hands out of his pockets to reveal not one but two sets of gun fingers.
“Everyone in the bank began screaming and running for cover. It was honestly chaos. He must have been banging the tunes because I’ve never seen anyone gun fingers with such ferocity – and I lived through World War II.
“He walked over to the ATM, still holding his gun fingers high, and, while we were cowering in the corner, withdrew a statement. He shouted, ‘Rah, where’s my Ps fam?’, at which point the poor bank teller started stuffing wads of cash into bin bags for him.
“But before anyone could do anything he walked out, muttering, ‘Peak, no funds, hope mumzy hooks it this month’.
“It was truly terrifying. I just hope for everyone’s sake that he doesn’t pull those gun fingers out in a club as he could do some serious damage.”
The huge volume of leopard print seen in the streets of Fallowfield has caused big cat poachers to flock to the Manchester suburb in droves, with the lack of game on arrival leaving them confused and pelt-less.
The gold rush of poachers from sub-Saharan Africa to sub-Rusholme Manchester began several months ago, after reports of a swelling in the leopard population of the North West reached other continents.
“We heard there’d been an increase in sightings in the area,” one poacher told The Whip. “I’ve been sat in this tree for three days and all I’ve noticed is a few hundred students attempting to demonstrate their unique style to indifferent peers as they navigate young adulthood.”
The WWF were also on hand to counteract the heightened poacher presence around Bar 256 in Fallowfield. They were reported to have discredited claims of leopard sightings, insisting instead that the only real predators at that watering hole wear chinos and a tie.
The Whip attempted to get a quote from one leopard-print-flares wearing pedestrian, but she simply claimed that, through her trousers, she had already made a statement.
Despite the best efforts of Fifth’s promotional team, The Whip can exclusively reveal that the first-year favourite club is still absolutely shite.
Initial reports that the foam party throwing venue is shit led Whip reporters to investigate further. Exit survey polls over the last year found that customer satisfaction has been on the decline, continuing on a steady downward trajectory since the opening night.
Critics cite the revelation that the establishment’s 90p vodka mixers are 90% water and a desperate attempt to draw crowds away from Factory led them to hire their notoriously heavy-handed former bouncers, perhaps in the hope of running a smoking area mixed martial arts tournament.
The percentage of repeat visitors has also slipped, with one club-goer explaining, “The only reason I stayed so long in the first place was because my shoes kept sticking to the floor.”
Attendees are encouraged to bring nicotine patches to survive the four cigarettes per night limit, or simply to not attend at all.
We will continue our updates periodically to see if Fifth ever improves.