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Gappers travel halfway across the world to experience a culture completely different from their own. We have all met (or been) the self-proclaimed explorer who won’t let you get the next drink because they modestly have to tell you about that time they found Nirvana in the Gangotri temple in the Uttarkashi region. Hedonistic wankers. But, with lockdown restrictions, this year’s trustafarians find themselves closer to the bank of mum and dad.

The Whip visited Arabella Deferred, to see if her lockdown nap year had invoked any holistic awakenings. It sounded like pure debauchery.

The morning Thai Chi class has been replaced by Joe Wicks. The Ethereal Haze once founded on the far-reaching views of the Andes, is now created by the fractoluminescence of the Sainsbury’s Van. Arabella has also found a way of “building character” through baking banana bread, after many failed attempts at learning Mandarin.

Arabella describes life amidst the pandemic as a “culture shock”, she scoffs: “I’m no hypochondriac but getting used to lockdown life has taken its toll on my  physical-mental-spiritual-ecclesiastical wellbeing that I can only describe as finding myself.”

Overhearing her father say “uncharted waters” for the 56^th time, reminds Arabella of “the perilous waters of the Amazon River I would be exploring if I was still on my Gap Year”.

Spying on neighbours becomes the new safari, for curtain-twitching Arabella, who at this point in the visit has already succumbed to calling 3 dealers for some “naughty salt” which apparently helps her to “transcend reality through mind-numbing Epicureanism with a dash of getting absolutely mortal”

“Drug dealahs count as key workahhhs right?” asks Arabella, with trailing vowels and no hint of irony detected.

Wi Fi was found guilty for torture and crimes against humanity in the International Court of Justice this morning after a long and arduous trial.

The prosecutors were a collective of students’ parents, who somehow managed to all be barristers, mostly upper-middle class, and entirely used to super fast fibre optic broadband. So fast that papa’s money can be wired to the account before one even need to ask!

Cries for Wi Fi’s demise were omnipresent in student homes across the country. Proof of torture and crimes against humanity was put forward by the prosecutors in the form of internet data speeds and microphones, picking up shrieks of pain and anger and live reactions such as “this is killing me!”, “I’d rather be waterboarded” and “it’s taking ages for my porn… I mean seminars to load!”

The campaign was fierce, the defendant, Fi, argued that if students’ Netflix binge habits and Tiktok addiction wasn’t so rife within their “disgusting little dwellings”, the internet would be fine.

As much as Mx. Fi did have a decent case, the jury found it hard to sympathise due to lack of a connection.

Boris Johnson’s introduction of the new tier system has caused havoc amongst bakers, the PM stipulating “if you must bake, do. But please don’t bake”. Speculation about tiered policies has hit the cake world by storm. Coffee and Walnut was hit the worst – the 11 – by – 15 incher reportedly toppled at the news – even the icing was in tiers.

Great British Bake Off plans have also been curtailed.  Contestants are forced to replace the architecturally challenging tier cake building with muffin-making. Another muffin, Paul Hollywood, spoke out against the changes, deploring that many frontrunners have been banned from the tent and been encouraged to masterbake at home.

To help ease tensions and resolve confusion, The Whip has drawn up a translation of the tier system for every baker’s kneads.

Tier 1: Chocolate Gateaux– something for everyone. The Bruce Bogtrotter of restrictions. Can even lick your friends’ fingers after consumption.

Tier 2: Lemon Drizzle – tastes a bit like Toilet Duck, but the sugar glaze cleanses the little-boys-room palette. Can also enjoy at a cheeky sleepover.

Tier 3: Malt Loaf – a reprehensible crime against baked goods. Even though it reminds you of your nan, do not bring this near her!! We can see why this would suffer from a case of “soggy bottom”. (N.B. Bristol students do not confuse this with the xanax-induced oopsy poopsy)

From Little Britain to The Great British Bake Off, Matt Lucas has quite a professional record of defining national sentiment, ranging from ill-advised sketch bigotry to cake bunting bullshit. 

Having at last escaped the magnetising clutch of David Walliams, leaving the latter to his three major passions of children’s book writing, transphobia and swimming the Thames, Lucas has emerged in a tent on Channel 4 to impose himself yet again on humanity. It’s almost as though the three tier icing and Paul Hollywood’s masochistic charm will distract us from Lucas’ noughties injustices. 

If you haven’t seen Come Fly With Me we envy you; never has a show competed with itself to see which racial minority it can insult the most. The ten years which have passed since have not remotely left enough time to scour the brain. 

Now as Hollywood knows, forgiveness is tricky, and usually takes a good 10-15 ‘shame’ years before a full acquittal. Reportedly the major film studios have drawn up a Naughty Step Guide for the new era allotting ‘forgive n forget’ deadlines based on the level of abhorrence; mercifully A24 refused to sign. 

However media overlords in the UK seem far more appeasing, with a memory loss that rivals only the British History curriculum. Dedicated, as both BBC and Channel 4 appear, to recycling the same caucasians throughout their shows, with only occasional gravitas given to new writers, it looks as though Matt Lucas and his friends will be around for some time.

Oh, and if you’re still reading this and looking for three showstoppers, then you’ve missed the point pal.

The Whip has decided to delve into the everyday germ-spreading that have recently spawned into new of biological warfare, bringing to attention previously mediocre interactions that are now close to homicidal.

1. Handshakes

Uh oh! The big dick energy from your deliberately crushing handshake has now expired. If you listen closely you can hear the quiet sobbing of keen networking event attendees. Sorry guys, you’ll have to suffice with a Herculean Zoom call introduction, or maybe experiment with an intellectual bookcase background if you’re super keen – make sure that your collection of Ben Shapiro’s greatest works are in full show, oh and Tomi Lahren’s autobiography to show that you respect women. Hope you get that online internship!

2. Sharing cigarettes

Social smokers have been rising each morning dismayed anew to be spending another day not freeloading off a dedicated smoker’s ciggy. Tantrums from this breed of smoker have been erupting every so often around Bristol, particularly outside of clubs but it’s awkward because no one even goes there anymore. Hang in there.

3. The Questionable Kitchen Tea Towel 

The questionable tea towel is every flat kitchen’s staple feature. In these times, the communal use of a tea towel can be likened to a cold-war era missile in its impact. Probably time to give it a wash.

4. The Questionable Bathroom Hand Towel

The QTT’s slightly damper cousin.

5. The cereal box game at your illegal gathering

Ah, the cereal box game; what once was an innocent post-dinner party favourite has now been recruited into 2020’s intricate ballet of biological warfare. The game, which involves the taking-in-turns to pick up an empty cereal box from the ground using only your mouth, ought to be avoided. Same goes for suck and blow – the irritatingly American version.

6. Getting with people

The path from doing this to passing on germs is, honestly, not an arduous one to forge. But if you’re worried about a risky recession in your sexual stock market, not to fret! Make sure you produce a backlog of Hinge dates over the lockdown period so that you’re ready to rumble as soon as Boris says so!

The game’s afoot: cuffing season is upon us. As the days grow shorter than our patience, many take to Tinder, swiping till their fingers become hardened, bloodied and calloused. Others opt for Hinge with its cringe inducing prompts and Wizkid algorithms. But here at The Whip we favour the good old-fashioned method of just going over and asking them out.

So, in a Whip exclusive we spoke to first year student Mungo Radley-Periguino who propositioned a somewhat out of place Wills fresher. We asked him to share some of his wisdom with our readers.

“Not going to lie when you look like I do how can you expect not to pull? You have to look good, otherwise the birds you shift will be totally butters. Have a filthy mullet, it’s a well-known fact that yatties go crazy for them. A cartilage piercing is another must: the more infected the better.”

He proceeded to explain how he asked out this particular girl. “I saw her from a distance and could tell she wanted it but I had a look to see if she was wearing a ring. Not a wedding ring of course but a signet ring. To my absolute bafflement she wasn’t but she was alright so I approached anyway and said my famous line.”

Unfortunately, in this case the girl wasn’t interested; however we’re sure Mungo’s bravery can inspire all of us to follow in his footsteps in the future. Join us next week to find out how it goes when using his infamous “Do you come here often?” line at his next trip to the sexual health clinic.

After decades of scouring the country, from the rolling hills of Exeter to the blistering coasts of St Andrews, The Whip has finally located Britain’s most cultured student: none other than UoB’s own Art Historian Hattie Crabbes, and all thanks to her recurring yeast infection.

When asked about winning the coveted, albeit highly unhygienic accolade of Britain’s most cultured student, the undergraduate responded…

“Yah well what can I say man, my strategy finally paid off! All these fakers on the course keep spouting bullshit about dadaism and Donatello, but I knew that if I was going to be the biggest culture vulture in town, I needed a bolder approach…”

She continued, “It suddenly hit me after a night of well, whatever the opposite of passion is, with this Redland bloke; woke up feeling rough as sandpaper, and when doc gave me the diagnosis the next morning, I exclaimed “YES! This is EXACTLY what I need to show Jonty and those other wankers that you don’t need to know your Michelangelo from your, shit who’s that other guy-Monet, yea that’s the one, to be the most cultured art hissy around!”

However, the fungus in question had a very different opinion regarding Hattie’s newfound credentials in the academic world…

“You’re joking, most cultured? I’ve helped brew Fosters with more taste than that arrogant gasbag! Knew I preferred that Redland guy, at least he had some original opinions on Bauhaus, even if he hasn’t washed in three weeks…”

We live in a society. Big and scary; fast and flashy; sometimes sexy? But that’s enough about me, let’s get back to this so-called society. It is, as many leading sociologists like to term it, and that XR bloke who nabbed your four pack of Scrumpies at the last Avonmouth free party, a fucking capitalist hellscape. We buy, sell, buy, sell, sell.. sell.. buy… We rush around in our crumpled, knock-off suit and claggy-with-the-condensation-of-foot Skechers combination, consume the reduced egg and cress sandwich, and thrust the adult scooter (cheeky) into our pathetic little recruitment job. We pen love letters ‘to the girl with hair on her head’ in the commuter crush section of the Metro and pore over crumpled father / daughter thrillers that are Taken AGAIN! It’s shite. It’s fast-paced and it’s shite. We’re all tired of, if you can pardon the Millennial phrasing, adulting.

A certain geographical land mass is also tired, and has decided to take a backseat in this brisk world. We caught up with absolute tease, the state of Nevada, who has been longing out the vote count for probably at least several decades at this point:

‘Mate, I’m just straight up vibing’, the state expressed. ‘My therapist told me to really just take life a day at a time, so every day I wake up and I count a singular vote – just the one 🙂 – then crack on with meditating. Once I’ve done my daily dose of Himalayan throat singing, occasional primal scream therapy if my Chi is particularly off that morning, I book in for a ketogenic, non-violent acupuncture session. Do you know how many needles it takes to cover 286,382 km²of terrain? Quite a few, I’m thinking.’

When asked if taking all this time for themselves has been beneficial for their wellbeing, the state responded simply: ‘no, not really.’ ‘I’ve been using all of this time to try and relax but I can’t help but feel like there’s something else that I should be doing… Something serious. Not sure what, I’m undecided at the moment. Guess we’ll just have to wait and see ;).’

We were minding our own business when the merrymaking of a particularly naughty lung caught our attention – reports have it that the respiratory organ has been laying it on thick like phlegm across the dating world. Out of sheer disgust and curiosity The Whip went to investigate.

Aside from the strikingly accurate, super original and satisfying rule-of-three description, the profile also advertises the lung’s aversion to pineapple on pizza and its especially unique love of dogs. He’s not like other lungs!

But it’s working – the likes are rolling in and this alveoli’s cool exterior proves that in this day and age it’s not about wearing your heart on your sleeve but in fact wearing your self-inflicted carbon-esque charred flesh on your lung- you can even achieve this exact look by consuming no less than forty saucy ciggys a day. “Woaoaoh, mysterious lung, I want to get close to you!” says one rib.

“I respect it – lonely lungs club is a real thing and actually quite sad” says a fellow Hinge member and  kidney. “Personally, monogamy isn’t my thing. I’m actually on a wee mission to build an entire urinary system and I’m on the hunt for a thick efficient bladder.” We wish you luck Kidney!

So, is this legendary lung the organ for you? Or is the pesky nicotine addiction a bit of a tar-n off?

“I don’t drink, so there’s that.” wheezes the lung, even though it physically can’t.