Exeter, Devon UK • Jun 13, 2024 • VOL XII

Exeter, Devon UK • [date-today] • VOL XII
Home Comment A typical Exeter summer

A typical Exeter summer

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This article exists thanks to the tireless efforts of Exeposé’s research team, who, through various investigative reports and lab experiments, have identified the most stereotypically Exeter person enrolled at the university. His name is Gideon Brentwick-Chatsworth and we have managed to get a hold of his Summer diary, which we can exclusively publish here.



Heading back home from the university after another successful year of wearing a gilet every single day and tutting at anyone in Tesco who buys own-brand goods. Unfortunately, Papá is away at the moment hunting silverback gorillas in the Congo, so I’m being forced to get the train home like some sort of socialist. I’m going to have to conduct a quick survey whilst on board and kindly ask security to remove those earning under £60k from my carriage. Once I’m back, Grandpapá and I will be sailing around the Cornish coast and stopping off at the houses he owns in order to collect rent. I went last year and it was ever so fun because one renter was late on their payments so Grandpapá waterboarded him!



Papá will be back from Africa, and to celebrate we are going to tell the maid that her entire family have burnt to death in a house fire and see how she reacts. We told the same lie to the gardener last year and it was priceless. However, once we broke the news to him that it wasn’t true, he filed a formal complaint, so of course we had to let him go. This year’s gardeners are far more docile, perhaps due to the fact that we send them monthly email updates about the old gardener’s ongoing legal battles to stop his house from being repossessed. I’m ending the month by going to the Stuart family’s annual barbecue, hopefully to have a round of indoor fox-hunting, which is a lot like regular hunting except the foxes have been pre-drugged so you can just set them down in the sitting room and then stamp on their faces.



I intend to spend the first half of August chortling and saying “oh yes absolutely, absolutely” after every poor-people joke I hear. Following this, me and the boys (William Winklepicker, Spencer Corduroy III, and Horatio Porcelain) will be travelling to Magaluf to experience what the lower class chaps call “a lads holiday”. Of course, we will be staying in a private villa, and not one of those syphilis-riddled semen-factories that pass as hotels. Upon arriving home, I shall be packing my cases and getting into Papá’s matte black Range Rover with a crate of rotten avocados ready to pelt at anyone who isn’t wearing branded clothing on my return to Exeter.

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