Comrades!
The Turtle has been a little
hoarse lately, but is once more booming out the joys of summer. This
term it contains a record number of articles, and is as long as the
titanic third issue. One hundred copies of the last Turtle vanished
in a few days which is an encouraging sign that there is still unsatisfied
demand. We'd like to have another issue out at the start of Michaelmas,
so please keep articles rolling in over the holiday. We know where
you live.
Spring and summer are the
seasons when the seeds of revolution germinate. This year the cracks
in the capitalist order are at their widest for some time - the crowds
are swelling in number and confidence, soon to repulse the mercenaries
of the ruling class. History's tides wash in our favour, but all is
not yet going our way. The people bloodied John Major's nose in two
elections, but unfortunately John Smith died in his bath. The masses
stormed Pembroke and sang their way down Cornmarket, but then voted
to be apathetic. Oxford's citizens sneered at the Boston Tea Party
and the Greens, but alas decided that John Tanner's facial hair should
not be represented in Strasbourg. The Labour Club has broken with
tradition and started to advertise its meetings, and even the Fabians
have been reasonably popular. So it has been a mixed term.
We owe debts of gratitude
to all those that kept the faith throughout the Turtle's silence.
Seven new writers feature in this issue, so especially friendly hugs
and kisses go to Binnie, Brendan, Gwen, Jo, Kate, Keith! and Palash.
This paragraph traditionally ends with thanks to Chris for Stakhanovite
support, but this time he has done most of the work and appears at
the bottom of the page, so he doesn't deserve a special mention.
This issue was so unremittingly
unfunny that the editors have had to bury gratuitous references to
North American ruminants in it. Please will everyone try harder next
time. John Armstrong is unwell.
May your shells grow hard
and horny, and give you chelonian pleasure,
Ben Fender
& Chris Brooke
