Meatless Mondays: A Harrowing Tale of Lenten Woe

I am a not a particularly religious individual. To be more specific, I’m vaguely Church of England, which means I religiously buy an advent calendar of the chocolate or pictorial variety around Christmas time and thus am certain I shall be admitted to Heaven when my time comes. I intend to convert to Catholicism in order to be wedded at St Patrick’s Cathedral, but there’s about a 10 year wait for that most esteemed of venues, so my religious awakening can be postponed for a little while. This backstory may seem irrelevant to you, dear reader (pardon the Brontë-esque tones, the cold brings it out of me) but I assure you it is of the utmost importance as I set the stage for the fearful episode I shall now recount. In an attempt to abandon my usual Epicureanism, I adopted the way of the cloth and practiced some Lenten self-sacrifice this week. Did I do this by choice? No. I mistakenly stumbled into Meatless Mondays in John Jay and was forced into the literal wilderness. The need for such a herbivorous feast is quite lost on me to begin with- supposedly it has something to do with ‘sustainability’ but the only thing it seems to sustain, in my not so humble opinion, is misery. I’ve never liked Vegans to begin with- there’s something in the Vegan character that makes them lovely to animals but absolute bastards to human beings. They’d cry over a 10 pack of nuggets but would quite gladly gouge your eyes out with a mascara, as long as it wasn’t tested on a rabbit. Often they share videos of animal cruelty to their timelines on Facebook, which are informative so much as I found myself more aroused by them than I expected to be. I jest, of course, but I do find Vegan-kind as a whole rather an affront to my carnivorous sensibilities. The Gospel according to PETA says it’s ‘humane’ not to eat our fellow animals, but I am convinced that every time a Vegan posts a photograph of their substandard Christmas lunch, somewhere in the world a lamb drops down dead out of an intuitive self-sacrifice for the good of an old-fashioned roast. Anyhow, in short, I found myself stranded in John Jay, with the most desperate of nourishment opportunities and I truly felt closer to Jesus than I have in my entire life. I’d rather have had his lot and spent all that time in the desert, sucking on rocks for moisture than be confronted with a slurry of foul meatless stew in the most pitiful of dining halls. The only time I ever desire to see an eggplant again in my life is on my text inbox at 2am from a suitor post-Mels’, and even then I’m reluctant. In short, I wish to share with you, reader, that if you wish to adopt an austere lifestyle this Lenten season, you can condense those 4 weeks without ‘wine’ or your ‘favourite snack’ or any of the namby bamby weak-spirited rubbish you’re foregoing in the name of your religious devotion, and simply walk into John Jay on a Monday if you wish to truly feel the level of abandonment and misery of our Lord and Saviour felt back in days of yore.

By: Henrietta Steventon

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