It's rather strange that they would insist in an IRC, given that both the UK & USA have discontinues sales of them.
But I know people have complained to HRP about this in the past, but since that's where they live, they haven't done anything about it. Heaven forbid they should use email tickets - like every airline or cinema, or even have an online creditcard payment form for the postage. It must be part of the historical experience to have to find a discontinued product in order to have the thrill of an actual paper envelope arrive in a fw weeks time.
I thought Terry Pratchett had the last word on the Ceremony of the Keys in "
The Last Continent"It was an old custom, centuries old, and in the summer a few tourists would hang around to watch it, but the Ceremony of the Keys went on every night in every season. Mere ice, wind and snow had never stopped it. Bledlows in times gone past had clambered over tentacled monstrosities to do the Ceremony; they'd waded through floodwater, flailed with their bowler hats at errant pigeons, harpies and dragons, and ignored mere faculty members who'd thrown open their bedroom windows and screamed imprecations on the lines of "Stop that damn racket, will you? What's the point?" They'd never stopped, or even thought of stopping. You couldn't stop Tradition. You could only add to it.
The three men reached the shadows by the main gate, almost blotted out in the whirling snow. The bledlow on duty was waiting for them.
"Halt! Who Goes There?" he shouted.
McAbre saluted. "The Archchancellor's Keys!"
"Pass, The Archchancellor's Keys!"
The Head Bledlow took a step forward, extended both arms in front of him with his palms bent back towards him, and patted his chest at the place where some bledlow long buried had once had two breast pockets. Pat, pat. Then he extended his arms by his sides and stiffly patted the sides of his jacket. Pat, pat.
"Damn! Could Have Sworn I Had Them A Moment Ago!" he bellowed, enunciating each word with a sort of bulldog carefulness.
The gatekeeper saluted. McAbre saluted.
"Have You Looked In All Your Pockets?"
McAbre saluted. The gatekeeper saluted. A small pyramid of snow was building up on his bowler hat.
"I Think I Must Have Left Them On The Dresser. It's Always The Same, Isn't It?"
"You Should Remember Where You Put Them Down!"
"Hang On, Perhaps They're In My Other Jacket!"
The young bledlow who was this week's Keeper of the Other Jacket stepped forward. Each man saluted the other two. The youngest cleared his throat and managed to say:
"No, I Looked In ... There This ... Morning!"
McAbre gave him a slight nod to acknowledge a difficult job done well, and patted his pockets again.
"Hold On, Stone The Crows, They Were In This Pocket After All! What A Muggins I Am!"
"Don't Worry, I Do The Same Myself!"
"Is My Face Red! Forget My Own Head Next!"
Somewhere in the darkness a window creaked up.
"Er, excuse me, gentlemen--"
"Here's The Keys, Then!" said McAbre, raising his voice.
"Much Obliged!"
"I wonder if you could--" the querulous voice went on, apologizing for even thinking of complaining.
"All Safe And Secure" shouted the gatekeeper, handing the keys back.
"--perhaps keep it down a little--"
"Gods Bless All Present!" screamed McAbre, veins standing out on his thick crimson neck.
"Careful Where You Put Them This Time. Ha! Ha! Ha!"
Ho! Ho! Ho!" yelled McAbre, beside himself with fury. He saluted stiffly, went About Turn with an unnecessarily large amount of foot stamping and the ancient exchange completed, marched back to the bledlows' lodge muttering under his breath.