As promised at the end of my initial compilation ('Rapid Production of Satirical Copy'), I attach here my Michaelmas mesh of magniloquence. Loosely based on running welfare wisdom, it traverses some quasi-imposing intellectual summits, such as spouting pure Keats by way of wellbeing advice, and shunting Cohen's entire discography into the technological ether.
Canto 1
Last year I wrote two appalling limericks by way of personal introduction, and because nothing has changed, I re-attach them here, with two additional middle stanzas. My dad’s assessment was ‘gosh, it doesn’t scan very well’ but he did concede that it ‘seems fine enough’; so it’s good to know my work is prompting informed literary criticism.
There is a Harey called Bea
Music taste pretentious, even extreme
She likes to run,
And to have fun –
Which means Smiths karaoke.
She has spent the summer vac
In mountains, the north and avoiding the sack,
Watching Doctor Who (Tennant is best)
And reading Tragedies - Oedipus is a pest.
Studies English so is allowed to wear flares,
Likes playing piano - to the irked neighbours’ glares.
Inexplicably loves working in the UL,
Wishes she had a quill and inkwell.
Would quite like to be a farmer,
Loves a pub quiz and a BBC drama,
Celeb crush is Schubert,
First aider too, so don’t get hurt!
Your welfare reps – we hope we’ve charmed yer.
Song of the week:
Cracking – Suzanne Vega. Technically this is about a ponderous, ruminative walk, but I think its lyrics can actually speak to those runs when your mind just completely runs away from you and you escape mundanity for a while. Our job is to ensure none of you become 'worn out at the knees' - and that's about all I can muster up by way of a Suzanne Vega-Harey Welfare association today.
Word of the week:
Soteria - literally ‘deliverance’ or ‘possession’, but has expanded to mean personal possessions that give one a sense of peace and security. As in, one’s garmin/coros, one’s garmin/coros charger, one’s garmin/coros packaging, one’s garmin/coros instruction manual, the buttons on one’s garmin/coros, and any pictures where one is wearing, sporting or using one’s garmin/coros. (Now say that fast 3 times).
Photo of the week:
A shot from a walk in the Highlands that didn’t promise to be anything spectacular but actually ended up seriously delivering. We were all zonked from the Twood holiday camp regime - family drills at 6am, Stuart-ratified porridge consumption by 7, boots on, quick march to the mountain base, identical sandwiches (never with enough butter) once halfway up the mountain, drop Mother Wood when the going gets tough, final razz to the summit, battle off Alba’s midges on the descent, back to the house, all hands on deck for the full-house scrub, everyone chopping, frying and roasting veg in the kitchen for Stuart’s kitchen nightmares Wester Ross edition, 20 minutes of ‘fun time’ with jenga and High School Musical top trumps and then cold showers for all.
So we wanted an easier day and set out on an ostensibly dull peninsula walk, which turned out to be stunning (as pictured): a jaunt around a loch bordered by heady pine trees and white-sand coves, where foxgloves and long grasses shot up within the ruins of an old bothy. I hope that this memorandum can serve as a, well, memorandum, that some things which don’t appear special or interesting can surprise you. Wordsworth, for one, didn’t want us losing that awe and wonder at the world that adulthood seeks to quell, so let’s try to retain it!
Canto 2
How now, my noble friends?
This week, our theme is carbs. Lovely carbohydrates keep our glycogen levels (muscle energy) at stable and productive levels. Without our bready, wheaty and ricey friends, we simply cannot perform, so they’re a crucial staple of the athlete diet. We need to be consuming carbs with every meal, and after training, an extra snack of ratio of 3:1 carbs to protein is also advised. Sandwiches portray this ratio in visual perfection, but cereal with yogurt, a pork pie, or a protein bar and banana would also be perfectly cromulent. To further illustrate my point, I have written a poem about the importance of staying carbohydrated - a neologism that I hope will catch on, granting me acclaim in the Cambridge dictionary in years to come.
As augured, here is the poem.
Staying carbodydrated will make you run pasta;
Come grain or shine, you will be faster.
Each rice you run, each step you take,
Fuelling is key, it’s make or bake.
Push the oat out, explore your options,
From some sourdough tasting to a hot cross bun.
You’ll get noodles of energy, feel so strong,
Risk it, eat a biscuit, you cannot go wrong!
Never eat fish without its rice cake bezzie mate;
You’ll feel amaize-ing with enough carbs on your plate,
Be real with your cereal, you’ll get shreddied;
And baguette-me-not, you knead to take heed.
Carbohydrates will enhance your muesl-eep,
Consistency is quiche; carbs at brekkie, lunch and tea.
You’ll be hoppy from dawn all the way lentil dusk,
Just follow these gruels and make no fuss.
With a crepe in your step in the blink of a pie,
Carb’s the best thing since sliced bread - hovis or rye,
When the chips are down, and things aren’t going to plan,
And you’re down in the dumplings, don’t throw in the flan.
Instead re-read this; I am quinoa to please,
Where there’s a will there’s a whey; I sanction pasties.
But for long enough now I have spewed out pure pap;
Without carbs you’re toast, and that is a wrap.
Song of the week:
Running to Stand Still – U2. ‘Stepping out of the rain’ and ‘running from the darkness in the night’ both sound like quite good ideas – and I suppose in a way, somehow we are running to stand still, contradictory as that sounds: running to be confident, to have a pillar of selfhood, to have something which distinguishes us, to be calm, balanced, still. Not to get into too weighty or metaphysical a subject matter for an implacable Monday afternoon of course.
Word of the week:
Empyrean – belonging to, or deriving from heaven. As in, Churchill grass.
Photo of the week:
Pictured here is young Betsy, the dog belonging to my lucky friend Andy. She is looking as ferociously eager as the guy who’s ‘never actually experienced that sort of atmosphere again before’, at the prospect of surmounting Skiddaw back in August. (Skiddaw was ‘absolutely electric’ to be fair. In that we faced something of an electrical storm 20 mins into the climb). Betsy actually ended up being something of a disgrace, far more interested in probing carcasses than gazing over the gorgeous, panoramic Lakeland views. Luckily her winsome eyes and charming grin redeemed her nefarious behaviour, and young Betsy was permitted some BBQ treats the next day.
Canto 3
As King Lear laments, I have returned - the poor rogue who talks of idle court news, trying to take upon myself the mystery of things. Angus and I were thrilled to see so many of you on Saturday at Sid Bar - thank you for popping along to say hi, and thank you to the Sid Bar operatives for giving me full control of the aux, and for bearing with me when the Next Step, Arthur, Horrid Henry and Tracy Beaker theme tunes cropped up.
I hope we are all faring well. I pen this on the Wattbike after an extortionately annoying day - you know those days when everything just takes longer than it’s supposed to and goes wrong at the very most inconvenient times? Today was one of them. Probably karma for the fact I slept for about 11 hours last night after possibly the earliest night seen amongst the 18-25 UK demographic for a quick millennium.
However, I resolved at about 5pm, mid-supo, to try and just enjoy the ride. I figured… why stress and tear out my hair over the uncontrollables (although arguably a lot of today’s mishaps were self-inflicted) when I could just learn from my mistakes, see the day through, and wake up tomorrow with all the ripeness and readiness of a Tesco punnet of strawberries?
I was so close to being bogged down, and so nearly called the day quits, but having decided to crawl away from my stressful cerebral hovel, dash outside and to the gym/ into college, things improved quite substantially. It is never too late to shift into reverse and start over (unless you literally come a hair’s breadth from the brick wall I faced in my first driving test. A story for another time). The plan - and it is still pending - is to watch David Tennant’s Hamlet in advance of writing an essay on said play tomorrow - and to eat a scrummy tuna pasta bake with my housemates. The day CAN be rejuvenated, just like one’s student Spotify subscription, one’s Gilmore girls-watching quest, and one’s general welfare if you find yourself seized by the doldrums of discouragement.
A mare doesn’t need to last all the way until night; the day can still become a dream!
Emily Dickinson said it yet better (sadly not at all a surprise):
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
Hope, we can hope, ‘never stops - at all’. So keep carpe-ing the diem everyone! We are always here to talk.
Song of the week:
Every Grain of Sand – Bob Dylan; these are absolutely brilliant lyrics. When I look back over my old strava activities, I, too, ‘hear [my] ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea’.
Word of the week:
Monticulous – having many hills. As in, the 2024 BUCS XC course, the Coton hill (tenuous), the Whinlatter parkrun, and the Grand Canyon. All equally impressive athletic feats if traversed or attempted.
Photo of the week:
A photographic representation of my demeanour at various points today, modelled by TWood himself, (not-so) precariously teetering on the brink of a mountain summit in the Highlands, Scotland, UK, Terrestrial Planets, The Observable Universe, The Milky Way Galaxy, The Fourth Dimension (August 2024).
Canto 4
Bea’s Advice
I enclose here a brilliant poem by Philip Larkin entitled ‘Solar’; it’s quite ambiguous but I think there is a degree of warmth conveyed which is quite heartening!
Suspended lion face
Spilling at the centre
Of an unfurnished sky
How still you stand,
And how unaided
Single stalkless flower
You pour unrecompensed.
The eye sees you
Simplified by distance
Into an origin,
Your petalled head of flames
Continuously exploding.
Heat is the echo of your
Gold.
Coined there among
Lonely horizontals
You exist openly.
Our needs hourly
Climb and return like angels.
Unclosing like a hand,
You give for ever.
I always think of sunflowers when I read this, and how their wonderfully expressive faces can portray almost human emotion as they either slouch or grin in line with the sun’s rays. In characteristically tenuous fashion, my teaching this week centres on weather-dependent mental health.
In summer it’s easier to feel as pleased as punch, fit as a fiddle, fresh as a daisy and as cool as a cucumber, but in the baltic brume and cold clag of winter it’s easy to feel drab and morose. Each lorry that flicks freezing water at you as you frantically pedal to a supo, each spoon of yoghurt that gives you brain-freeze because even your fridge is feeling too cold, and each SLR black-ice-induced stumble gradually wears you down in its weary weltschmerz.
But, although these cold, chapped days can seem to advocate dreariness, we must try to keep our spirits high! Set time aside for some self-oriented TLC, whether it’s for a house quiz, TV show catch-up, a bed-nest installation, an Evensong outing, a herbal tea and a murray mint, or, my personal fave, a loud-music-accompanied spikes scrub (just not in the communal shower peradventure).
Keep checking in on each other and don’t forsake the (literal) silver linings - Cambridge winters can afford a divine host of sunsets and streaky golden-fringed clouds, which although unable to provide the powerful energy of ‘Solar’, can serve as little glimmers of fortitude and joy!
Song of the week:
Saturday Sun – Nick Drake. Drake studied English at Fitz, didn’t like the architecture in college, but did love reading Wordsworth, another Cambridge alumnus. Had he been a Harey, obviously this song title would’ve been a reference to Saturday’s various races - Megacross and Mansfield. Saturday fun and Saturday run in the Saturday sun – very much not this song’s gist, it is needless to say.
Playlist available here! Good for the soul, the speed and the sport:
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0IE8Qxc0xsMF0xPCPKyQoF?si=MgCEedXhTNuQ6wo58EPS7Q&pi=e-Qsh0j2oTSI62
Word of the week:
Noctilucent - something that shines or glows at night. Just because it’s dark now doesn’t mean we can’t shine bright like the diamonds we all are. Especially if we are attending Eddington!
Photo of the week:
As foreshadowed throughout this email, I attach a sunset from August this year – rendered even more beautiful by its Highland locus! This really is a ‘petalled head of flames/ Continuously exploding’.
Canto 5
I pen this candle-lit ode to Morpheus to you during the day’s dark and dusky demise (aka, late. Apologies). But that is fitting, because the welfare theme this week is sleep.
Sleep is one of life’s joys, responsible for maintaining us physically and cognitively; but the key is that sleep is an entirely subjective experience. There’s no point comparing your sleep routines with others and fretting over ‘wasted time’ – ‘wasted time’ being possibly one of the greatest misnomers floating around out there in this context. The prize sleep scenario is to get yourself into a healthy and sustainable sleep schedule, aiming for at least 8 hours a night. Human tiredness peaks twice a day – on average, at 2am and 2pm – so perhaps factor that into your work/study plans.
Especially around this point in term, it can be hard to prioritise rest and sleep, and the intense nature of our degrees can compound this. I for one had some strange nights the other week, after a big Shakespeare reading stint, where, in the liminal haze between wake and sleep, my brain decided to compose random (and actually surprisingly eloquent) Shakespearean epithets regarding my day-to-day goings-on. I think one went something like: ‘But my good Andrew, siree – in sooth, I know not why you sup with us not. I would entertain my friends in the glossy sheen of felicity, loathe to forgo the quintessence of the camaraderie best befitting thy noble dress’. (Because my friend Andy hadn’t eaten in hall with us that evening). They just kind of floated around my mind for a bit, which was fun but rather odd, it must be said; probably not a state I’d wish for in perpetuation.
My point is that the brain can get quite overwrought by life – whether it’s like this strange little vignette, getting intensely subsumed in academia and unable to switch off, or in any other mode or trend. I decided I needed a day off work, which I took and enjoyed; but equally simple things like splitting up your sleep and study spaces, turning off devices, and using warmer lights are all smaller steps to somnolent success.
But who better to celebrate the delight of the slumber than Mr John Keats? Here is his beautiful Ode, To Sleep. I would say I was probably suffering a case of the mole-like ‘curious Conscience’, although perhaps that’s giving my aesthetic sensibility rather too much agency.
O soft embalmer of the still midnight,
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close
In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,
Or wait the "Amen," ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities.
Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,—
Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
Song of the week:
Into Dust – Mazzy Star. I definitely can’t turn to this song’s lyrics for any jubilant welfare crown jewels, so I’ll pretend that its title is a reference to the dust created by some speedily running feet, and hope that that is convincing enough to cut the mustard today.
Word of the week:
Fremescent – getting louder. As in, the cheering-to-cacophony-to-caterwauling trajectory of yelps and screeches as a cross country stampede approaches your spectating standpoint. (That’s why spectators spend most of their time running away from the athletes and across the field, ahh…)
Photo of the week:
Here is my third favourite living tree in the world, after the ‘Broccoli Tree’ in Grasmere, and my gnarled friend, the ‘Woodlouse Tree’ in my childhood home in the depths of Dorset. This, a shot of the ‘Fire Tree’, was taken today at Wimpole Hall, courtesy of Mother Wood. It is even more striking in person, its flaming leaves against an earthy backdrop the crown jewel of the whole park. Please do reply with any favourite trees you are ferreting away there; as my name suggests, I’m an enthusiast.
Canto 6
Hello, hello, hello, how lowww – to quote Kurt Cobain. (Add some snarl for extra verisimilitude). This welfare column got a bit deep today, as I realised fairly swiftly that Leonard Cohen’s words are rather too poetic for a discourse on fuelling patterns and running sessions. Natheless, I have done my best, and as you will read, that is all we can be expected to do! A merry Monday to you all.
I bring my welfare advice to you today, written as far as is comprehensively possible in Leonard Cohen lyrics.
In our individual running journeys, although there is no one-size-fits-all regarding health and wellbeing, there are certain universal maxims which can hopefully guide us to deposit welfare diamonds in the mine. Firstly, don’t isolate yourself when struggling from high ordeal or common trial - don’t build your little house deep in the desert, don’t live for nothing now.
Talk to someone - one of us, a friend, family member, college advisor, sports centre or SU welfare officer, helpline - get them on your wavelength, and know that you can trust them, because they want to travel with you through this. Express yourself, don’t bottle things up - life can be chaotic and crazy so you will never be reproached for wanting to laugh, and cry, and laugh about it all again.
Secondly, remember to fuel well! A good meal really can dispel and dissipate woes - many foods literally cut cortisol and adrenaline (the stressy ones) and boost serotonin. Unfortunately Cohen doesn’t write much about foodstuff, but he does repeatedly mention boxes of chocolates, and I have been able to track down mentions of peanuts, tea and oranges, and some salt so I’ll just leave that here for some gastronomical inspo.
Sleep is also vital; as the night comes on, it’s very calm - a chance to recharge, to leave everything you couldn’t control in the yesterday and to look on to the tomorrow with renewed energy and hope. Sleep is a sweet repast, where your spirit can become calm, between the moonlight and the lane, between the darkness and the stage - the night is fragrant with the mighty expectation of relief. (I’ve struck gold here with Leonard’s night-time references haven’t I!).
Finally, because Cohen is basically crying out for this, I will provide some very general welfare wisdom in the anti-nihilism trend. It’s easy, especially in a high-pressure environment like Cambridge, to question yourself and your status/ belonging/ right to be here/ success/ character/ future, and these concerns are not attenuated much by our odd historical standpoint: one where AI is being manipulated by supervillains, the environment is in slow decay, society’s economic rift is sharper than ever before and global conflicts rage on unremittingly.
But, as Leonard writes (and croons), we just have to do our best, our own bit and leave the uncontrollables outside - let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie. We should aim not to dwell on what has passed away, or what is yet to be. He (like many poets) is certain that the cracks which pervade everything (the unfulfilled expectations, the sub-par essays, the sad days, the arguments) are necessary, because they’re the very same shards which let the light get in.
We shouldn’t hang around waiting for a miracle, because although the summer’s gone, a lot goes on forever; there’s a blaze of light in every word - in every act of kindness, every good split in a session, every pink lady apple. He says that a heavy burden lifts from his soul when he realises that love (and by extension, rather a lot of other things), are actually out of his control.
Ultimately, we don’t need a reason for what we become, we don’t need tired and lame excuses, or a pardon - we need to celebrate ourselves, and try to focus on the controllable factors of this bizarre, brilliant existence.
Song of the week:
Step On – Happy Mondays. In fact, this whole album, Pills ‘n Thrills ‘n Bellyaches is a sterling effort. Perhaps not the most judicious, wholesome or healthy CD for my five-year old self to adore more than anything else, but the chosen one it was. It must've been the garish colours which attracted my nascent magpie claws and lured me into this 1980 Manchester band’s clutches. I didn’t comprehend most of what was being said, squawked or sung, thank heavens. But the album inexorably has a special place in my heart.
Word of the week:
Autoclesis – bringing up a subject by refusing to talk about it. Lol. I do this so much. Don’t even get me started on the question of introducing XC into the Olympics. You mustn’t ask me to give you my opinions on Churchill grass. I simply can’t tell you about my thoughts on the hill. I could literally write pages on watch pausation, but I can’t allow myself to do that to you. Wellll, as you insist…
Photo of the week:
A shot of King’s College Chapel from Thursday night, when myself and a college friend managed to sweet talk our way into Mozart’s glorious requiem. We’d been at another concert and had a mad dash over to King’s, pedalling on sheer delusionary optimism, and fully aware that the evening was completely sold out. As it was, Herb’s political experience was put to good use and it was mind-bogglingly good. Mr Mozart, you have my heart.
Canto 7
This is the end, as Adele memorably said. We have basically reached THE END of term – big congratulations to everyone for this; it’s no mean feat.
As this is our last email as we gradually creep towards the Christmas holidays, I’ll just shunt some disparate patches of welfare antipasto out into the distant yonder – for your reflection, enjoyment and/or disdain (delete as appropriate).
As William Blake aptly said, ‘energy is the only life, and is from the body; and reason is the bound or outward circumference of energy. Energy is eternal delight’. So in order to harness our eternal light, we need to ensure that we’re fueling properly throughout the holiday. Don’t be a silly goose and decide that the munching of extra turkey demands extra miles. That ain’t how it works, Sputnik!
Make sure to take some downtime regardless of the imminent stress of Cambridge: take some generous time off work, catch up on the sleep and relax with some epsom bath salts, some present-wrapping, some solo karaoke, some bike maintenance, some pin-board creation… whichever pastime appertains to the floating of thy boat.
Have a merry time, and as always, reach out to us with any questions, queries/ issues. We’ll see you in the New Year!
Song of the week:
Sidewalking – The Jesus and Mary Chain; although I hope you never find yourselves ‘chilled to the bone and five miles from home’. If you’re ever unlucky enough to be thus assailed, I direct you to this word of the week for some heartwarming recovery.
Word of the week:
Faltrank – a medical drink made of aromatic herbs. Pukka’s echinacea and elderberry should do the trick (sponsorship/contract deals much appreciated if anyone has any nepotistic ties to said brand).
Song of the week:
Sisters of Mercy – Leonard Cohen. When Leonard ‘just can’t go on’, the sisters of mercy are waiting for him; when I just can’t go on, a hot bath and a ratatouille await me. We are not the same, Leonard, despite my best efforts.
Word of the week:
Dreich – an old Scots adjective meaning miserable and bleak (in reference to the weather); as in, ‘I’m on the cross trainer today because I couldn’t face the dreich weather out there’.
Photo of the week:
Here is a radiantly smiling Herbie Good Grubberfield, who literally cooked an ENTIRE Christmas dinner for nine of us, AND there’s left-overs. I mean that really is a wild feat. His roast potatoes took two hours and were probably the best I’ve ever eaten. Here, at his station, this man is full of aspiration, a pro at oration and negotiation, was probably present at the coronation, deserves a proper standing ovation, he relieved us from culinary damnation and deprivation; he can cook for the nation, to everyone’s elation.
And that, as I mention in my Carbohydration poem, is a wrap.
As a wise man once (nearly) said, 'I love the smell of tiger balm in the morning. It smells like... victory.' Resisting the barnum and bailey ways of the world will portend victory, so unleash the tiger within and roarrrr...
Clearly, as your wel fare friend, it is time to bid you fare well, so it is with all due affection that,
I'll Bea Seeing You.
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