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Noticeboards
Feb. 26th, 2010 03:23 pmA nice article, via ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shimgray: Publish and be damned, a quick history of the local newspaper of the Falkland Islands, the delightfully-named Penguin News. The best quote in the article is where the Argentinian foreign minister complains that his copy of the newspaper, faxed from the islands, isn't complete:
“The former Foreign Minister Guido Di Tella had the Penguin News faxed to his house every Friday — including the back page with its chickens, computers and sofas for sale. One of his aides told [the editor]: ‘The Foreign Minister he want the backpage too, why you not fax it with rest of paper?’”
On a similar theme, I went to school early this morning for some last-minute queries about tomorrow's exam, and was, as usual, thoroughly distracted by the university's noticeboards. I love noticeboards; I love how they are this weird, idiosyncratic snapshot of an institution, the usual people selling textbooks and their proof-reading skills, advertising rooms vacant (I especially liked the long, detailed, illustrated ad, with testimonials and careful use of fonts, which neglected to mention where in Oxford, and indeed in creation, the room may be), but also people looking to recruit volunteers for studies (dear psychology department, bellowing "ARE YOU FAT?", with cheerful clipart of a pie is either hideously insensitive or very fat-accepting, I have no idea which), suggesting you come along to a fire-eating class, telling you why you should join Unison (this advert, carefully placed so it can be seen from fifty metres away, reads: "BI OR TRANS" and very little else; I wondered about it for months before I finally got around to reading the small print).
Today's particular highlight was, orthography and punctuation as original:
"do you play the clarinet
do you play the guitar
or the trumpet
WHY NOT PLAY IT IN THE HOUSE OF GOD"
Is it just me, or is that found poetry? There was also an advertisement for a talk on "Jesus and Love Actually" and while I was staring at that in some confusion the Christian Union came along and gave me a Creme Egg. Which was startling. It had a flyer taped to it with the heading, "Science is dead".
(Also, the sign on the road outside, placed directly in front of a gigantic craggy hole in the ground: "Road closed for sewer repairs. Expected completion date 12th Feb." Oh, Oxford City Council, well done, again.)
...oh, dear. I really ought to go back to revising for this thrice-damned exam. Urgh. Negative marking. My inability to do basic arithmetic, currently so much centre-stage that I wondered for a while if it might be the first sign of some horrible obscure neurological condition. VAT rates that change mid-question (we are the only cohort in the entire history of the course to have had a change of VAT in the middle of it, because life is just that unfair). And, it has to be on a Saturday! I wanted to go to Queer Cabaret tonight. Wah, etc. At least it's sunny today, and not so cold, and there's prospect of a nice dinner.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends; there is a shortage of English dead.
shimgray: Publish and be damned, a quick history of the local newspaper of the Falkland Islands, the delightfully-named Penguin News. The best quote in the article is where the Argentinian foreign minister complains that his copy of the newspaper, faxed from the islands, isn't complete:“The former Foreign Minister Guido Di Tella had the Penguin News faxed to his house every Friday — including the back page with its chickens, computers and sofas for sale. One of his aides told [the editor]: ‘The Foreign Minister he want the backpage too, why you not fax it with rest of paper?’”
On a similar theme, I went to school early this morning for some last-minute queries about tomorrow's exam, and was, as usual, thoroughly distracted by the university's noticeboards. I love noticeboards; I love how they are this weird, idiosyncratic snapshot of an institution, the usual people selling textbooks and their proof-reading skills, advertising rooms vacant (I especially liked the long, detailed, illustrated ad, with testimonials and careful use of fonts, which neglected to mention where in Oxford, and indeed in creation, the room may be), but also people looking to recruit volunteers for studies (dear psychology department, bellowing "ARE YOU FAT?", with cheerful clipart of a pie is either hideously insensitive or very fat-accepting, I have no idea which), suggesting you come along to a fire-eating class, telling you why you should join Unison (this advert, carefully placed so it can be seen from fifty metres away, reads: "BI OR TRANS" and very little else; I wondered about it for months before I finally got around to reading the small print).
Today's particular highlight was, orthography and punctuation as original:
"do you play the clarinet
do you play the guitar
or the trumpet
WHY NOT PLAY IT IN THE HOUSE OF GOD"
Is it just me, or is that found poetry? There was also an advertisement for a talk on "Jesus and Love Actually" and while I was staring at that in some confusion the Christian Union came along and gave me a Creme Egg. Which was startling. It had a flyer taped to it with the heading, "Science is dead".
(Also, the sign on the road outside, placed directly in front of a gigantic craggy hole in the ground: "Road closed for sewer repairs. Expected completion date 12th Feb." Oh, Oxford City Council, well done, again.)
...oh, dear. I really ought to go back to revising for this thrice-damned exam. Urgh. Negative marking. My inability to do basic arithmetic, currently so much centre-stage that I wondered for a while if it might be the first sign of some horrible obscure neurological condition. VAT rates that change mid-question (we are the only cohort in the entire history of the course to have had a change of VAT in the middle of it, because life is just that unfair). And, it has to be on a Saturday! I wanted to go to Queer Cabaret tonight. Wah, etc. At least it's sunny today, and not so cold, and there's prospect of a nice dinner.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends; there is a shortage of English dead.
