Following reports of a great shiggy- ing and diggying in the south cloisters, I, UCL’s greatest poet rushed there as fast as my lack of speed would allow. The long and extensive walks I’ve taken through the darker side of my psyche had led me to believe I had seen everything. Nonetheless, the scene that confronted me escapes description by normal and proper civilian words. Such things can- not be described by one of your hacks. Instead, let the reader lap at the bowl of my logophilia. For I have recorded the event described by onlookers as “just in- describable”. Brace your body. Restrain your mind.
A man was shiggying and diggying where no biggying was to be normally found. When the shiggies outnumbered the diggies the liggying crowd could be seen fleeing in all directions. Only the most steadfast of souls remained, among them yours truly albeit with a slight shig- ward shake in my diggying heart. As the ambulance took away the hapless shig- gydiggyer who was shiggydigying still, I couldn’t help but shigger and digger a little myself, and stepped outside and upwards onto the Portico. I turned the collar of my trenchcoat up to the cold, in sharp contrast to the pulling down of my trilby moments before. I lit a cigarette. I stared at the sky. Stars twinkled above the cruciform. Sentences started short- ening. Night enveloped. Shiggy