16 January 2012

Paradise Lost

Perhaps it was an omen? Former PGer Damien descended on PMA towers and immediately had his wicked way with our previously strait-laced, God-fearing work ethic (God in this case being Roberta). Ostensibly here to tell us the ins, outs and whyfores of getting a job once our course has finished (it involves wearing underpants, I think), he instead whispered in our unfallen ears such tales of drunkenness, debauchery and depravity to have Michael stuffing his scarf in his ears and Pam chocking on her chocolate.

And all under the omnipotent gaze of Roberta, who, in the manner of all the best deities, turned the other cheek and forgave. (And Lo she looked upon the piles of news submission forms and saw that it was not good.)

But even the all-seeing is no match for the free-will of her creations, and no sooner had Damien returned to the sulphurous waste from whence he came (Finsbury Park) did a dark cabal of PGers venture out to Sainsbury's to buy a bottle of blood-red wine.

Just one, of course. We haven’t fallen that far. Not yet, anyway, and judging from what Damien told us we have a long way to go before we match the antics of last winter’s course. The horny devils.

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