‘Twas gone first light when I, through fitful slumber, saw the sharp Utah rays drench the Rey Inn’s courtyard and pierce my folded curtains. I rose quickly on account of my companion Robert, whose blunt request to silence my iPhone alarm saw that I rolled out of bed to cross the room. This I performed in a manner akin to that of a sow turfed out of warm hay (that is to say, sluggish and disgruntled, grumbling meagre curses).
The pair of us joined the rest of our rag-tag bunch in the dining hall, though this perhaps gives an air of grandeur to the pokey side room that could be deemed by those present as a little over-generous. Over our breakfast of Fruit Loops and DIY waffles, we conversed on the subject that, having come to light that very morning, had been troubled each of our independent crania, this being the prospect of a snap general election by that bastion of democracy, figurehead of the western world, wielder of the electoral gauntlet, Prime Minister Theresa May. This reporter is proud to convey that much guffawing, debating, and masticating (the latter pertaining to the Fruit Loops) ensued over the future of our sovereign isle – one must understand, you see, that, politics, akin to our dear lady A cappella, is a gentleman’s game, and as such must be discussed with the utmost respect (as anyone who has seen our performance of Macarena and I’ll Make a Man Out of You will recognise).
After our spirited debate and a brisk exploration of our immediate -if humble- surroundings, Exeter’s burgundy triodecad, full of maple syrup and pre-performance vigour, boarded our chariot for a six minute journey to the Heritage Centre Theatre. Jacob Storey managed to fill this void of time by substituting each vowel sound of the tenor 1 line of Michael Buble’s Everything with Greg’s name. Needless to say, such horseplay is, and remains grating from its outset.
Upon arrival, the inexorable soundcheck reared its ugly head, but it proved brief, and was conquered with amiable grace. Unbeknownst to Henry, our community outreach show had been billed as an “A cappella masterclass” with “Cambridge University’s Semi-Toned”, which prompted some slap-dash last minute adjustments to our usual extravaganza. These were bestowed upon the audience in the form of elongated, educational speeches interspersing our usual tomfoolery (with the addition of a rare beatboxing workshop from seasoned veterans Sam Harper and Duncan Payne). Following this landmark success, we ventured out onto the wild plains of Cedar City to hunt the illustrious chicken teriyaki, which basks in the shadows of the white mountains that loom, ever present, over the American southwest.
Following our lavish evening performance, we dined like kings upon complementary gateau provided by our magnanimous hosts. Moreover, I feel it due to offer my sincerest apologies to the young lady whose name we sadly botched during an overly-zealous rendition of happy birthday at our merchandise kiosk (whose moniker, for reasons adumbrated, I have no choice but to omit). When the sun had set over the hills, we welcomed a lively bunch of SUU Music students to our dwellings, who, bearing plentiful helpings of crème soda and chips, joined us for a joyous social gathering. They stayed round the hearth late into the night, bellowing out Downtown by Macklemore and, oxymoronically, It’s Oh So Quiet by Bjork. I am ashamed to admit that I, weary from the day’s activity, retired to my bedchamber early, swapping rooms with Ludo so that the party could keep on rocking.
Thus I replace my quill in my breast pocket, and conclude today’s entry in favour of a good night’s rest. Yet do not fear: we shall speak again on the morrow.
P.S. Duncan here. While editing this, I understood roughly 50% of the text, so I will presume Alfie, as an English student, is correct in his musings. We’re now on our way to Iowa!