The gathering, for me, commenced at twenty past eight in the morning. After a traditionally non-productive playwriting meeting on Friday night, which I had fled at three am in quest of some sleep leaving... well, no coherent script, to be honest, I came down for breakfast in the agreeably totalitarian surroundings of St John's Refectory at twenty past eight in time to encounter Myke, Alx, Tom, Niall, and Ian on the same mission. Words cannot express the sense of disorientation I felt at attending a gathering of OUSFGi in the morning- and more so, in the morning after a night's sleep, rather than simply in the morning because the clock lacks sufficient hours to comprehend an OUSFG late night meeting. I believe I was the only one of this herd to have slept. Whether or not this is true, I was privileged to see a copy of the script. When I had left it earlier, it had been a non-existent and therefore non-coherent phantom. Now it existed. Little else about it had changed.

      After breakfast, I retired to my room to fiddle with Ceefax until twenty past eleven, when I repaired to St John's Lodge there to meet with Myke and Alex (Female). Actually the meeting was not scheduled until eleven thirty (Alex), and eleven forty (Myke), but my ability to underestimate my own walking pace means that I invariably spend a lot of time being early to things. An irritating habit in a normal person, a quite disasterous one for an OUSFGi, where the norm is for people to look upon any agreed time as being anything between half an hour and an hour prior to the actual meeting time. Alex arrived on time, wearing a t-shirt presumably calculated to inflame the wrath of those OUSFGi who think the merest mention of the "D_____ W__" words warrants execution, and a straw boater most suitable for the style of the day, but alas perhaps less so for the subsequent weather. Myke was a little late, but as he was employed in the gathering of food (which I had spectacularly forgotten to remember) this was entirely excusable.

      We made our way north to the frozen wastes of Banbury Road and the Cherhell Boathouse to claim our punt, on the way rousing Baggers from his slumber by telephone, since it was he who was to hire the punt, and also he who had made errors about the time. At the boathouse, we gathered Baggers, Alx, and awaited Matt Piatkus, who failed to materialise. This did mean having both Alexes in one punt, but miraculously the journey passed off without violence. We had an excellent journey downstream, whilst Alx's mobile telephone kept us up to date on the progress, lack of progress, or exceptional progress in the wrong direction of the two punts setting out from the Magdalen Bridge end. We arrived at Parsons' Pleasure substantially before either enemy punt, and thus would have laid claim to the best seating, had we got around to it.

      Sometime later, the rest of the swarm arrived almost without mishap. The unfortunate exception was a bottle of red wine, which decided to commit hari-kiri over the inside of Ruth's bag. Luckily for almost everyone, other alcohol was available. The rest of the food and drink survived well, despite the thievery attempted by a number of squirrels and goslings. We gave one particular squirrel a number of curry-flavoured crisps as a reward for its diligence, and to see if it would explode. It survived the crisp, and indeed enjoyed it, but was somewhat perturbed by Alastair's attempts to seduce it. After a certain amount of feeding, at which kind Ruth allowed Alex and I to feast upon her food, and thus warrants a special mention, the play began.

"The play's the thing,
In which I'll catch the conscience of the King."

      Actually, we probably would not have started the play as soon as we did, had it not been for the oncoming threat of rain. Even so, it took considerable time for procrastination (and the burying of explosives) to give way to action. The play was a parody of "The Lord of the Rings", and a number of obscure pop-culture and culture references, some of which I understood, and many more of which someone like me, who keeps one toe in culture, half an eye on counter culture, and pop culture in a little box out of the way somewhere, had no hope of understanding. None the less, it was entertainment of the highest order, although I'm not entirely sure it was necessary for me to roll on the muddy, duck excrement coated ground in death agony on every other page. However, it did mean that I, a student of Philosophy and Modern Languages, will now leave the University with my last experience of Philosophy being my participation in a 'philosophers vs. mathematicians' battle royale, with opposing sides wielding cardboard philosophers and mathematicians. Alex and I succeeded in comprehensively hitting Alx over the head with pieces of cardboard. However, in a strange and bewildering break with tradition, no velociraptors were featured. Perhaps to make up for this, we were enthralled by an attacking Absence of Giant Octopusses, and explosions made an entertaining and possibly illegal comeback. These had apparently been a staple of the Punt Party in the days of the elderlies of OUSFG, and for no apparent reason other than a desire for carnage, Niall and Tom decided to give them a comeback. (On the other hand, those two are biochemists, which we all know means necromancer, so do they really need any reason beyond a desire for carnage?) After one moment when we thought a small toddler was about to set our "theatrical effect" off in its face, everything went fine and no lives were lost. Well, all right, but no one's ever going to find those bodies, are they?

      Once the play had finished, with a rousing chorus of a completely unscannable version of "The Twelve Days of Christmas", there was time for some quiet reflection. I said there was time for it. What we did instead was eat a little more food, watch Niall, Ian, and Jo fight Light Sabre duels with sparklers, gather up our rubbish, and prepare our punts for the voyages back. Despite Tanaqui's ministrations, we eventually took a couple of Magdalen cushions back to Cherhell Boathouse, once we had assembled a crew and passengers fit for voyage.

      Our northbound punt enjoyed a change of crew for its return journey, with Myke wishing to go south for the post-Punt Party party (which is really just an excuse for alliteration) at Ian and Ruth's. He was replaced by Alastair, to whom, and Baggers I should like to extend considerable gratitude for their skill punting us back against the current through less than wonderful weather. It was of course at this point that the rain began. Whilst the journey upstream was undeniably less pleasant than the journey down, and there were a number of hairy moments, we all escaped undrenched, and returned exhausted, battered, but unbowed, to the Boathouse. Alx subsequently cycled off, presumably bound for the post-Punt Party party. Up since Friday, and he manages to cycle, and go on for another party. I don't know where he gets his energy. Actually I have a suspicion that it has something to do with the blood of the living, but there may be a totally innocent explanation. Alastair subsequently disappeared to find his car, and the remaining three of us wandered sleepily back down Banbury Road on foot. Baggers may conceivably have gone to the post-Punt Party party himself, or possibly just to sleep. At any rate, Alex and I crawled back to our respective colleges, the adrenaline rush which had sustained us through the day on a mere fraction of normal night's sleeps suddenly beginning to fade. Entering St John's, I performed the usual perfunctory e-mail games- which became somewhat protracted until I had gathered the necessary energy levels to stand up and climb my staircase, and then made my way to a nice comfortable bed in front of the TV. We await the arrest of Myke by the University Police.