By Conor T. Keane

Recording Secretary

Sunrise Sunset, Sunrise Sunset. The 163 is dead and gone but from the ashes, reborn comes:

The 164!

And so it was, once more, once more, that man in black enrobed, took to the floor, amidst a chorus of Resign! once more, the reverb hitting as we walk through the door

The start of another Session

Once more

Once more

And so it was, oh but 12 moons ago, a motley crew of debaters new, ambled into this hallowed hall, to show each and every, one and all, that new blood is here, an occurrence which we hold dear, to speak before you and even steer you mind to see.

Or so I would if I had a copy of last year’s minutes. Tut tut my predecessor. tut tut.

And alas the thought came like a thief in the night, into my brain in silent strife, like the denizens of Westside, scumbags white to settle this quandary contrite.

And so I decided, well and true, that dear Gibs, I’d write about you.

And tell you tales of what you would see, of bountiful beauties and a pant less Kelly. Debates on models and breasts and manly men men, footballers’ wives and genocide tribes. Debates about China, Google and Mao, debates that can drag where you scream KILL ME NOW, these of course usually about abortion or God or whether or not drunken fucking is allowed. Whether an ape is as good as a child, even though it exists in the wild. Although let us be fair and even a little just, some of my friends with an ape I would not trust. These are good people, of that I’ve no doubt but from living with the Auditor of this I do shout. Dear first years of feminine slant, our dear Auditor is a man who is adverse to pants. And you may be lucky and never ever see, he does this infernal move where he will BOSH thee. This a crotching from the man on my right, the only thing to save you is lycra,

Skin tight.

The effects they will scar you, as our treasurer knows well. She has enough men to constantly ring a bell. An eclectic collection of guys she has seen, Gingers and aul hacks.

Next week. Charlie Sheen

Debates on the family, the gays and the straights, debates where the answer still doth await. You will embark on adventures on various climes; you’ll debate on economics and Western war Crimes. You could head to Botswana and compete at Worlds; you can head to Oxford and score a hot Scottish girl.

And so I must wrap up, bu committee decree, before Conor and Eimear fricassee me. But remember dear Gibs and hold this quite dear. Anything you believe is always welcome here. Any passion you have or irk you may hate, bring it here Thursday and by God we’ll debate. We’ll eek out the good points, flush out the bad, and these nights will be the best you will have. You will find yourself addicted, and without cure, you discover your beliefs, simple and pure

My friend, you I do welcome, to this hall of glee, you’ll argue before us, your points written by me. I look forward to it.

The minutes are these.