Right then

Clearly there is a time to deliver on so far empty promises, and that time is now. Not that I intend to deliver on all my empty promises mind you, because there simply isn't enough time in the day, or possibly my remaining lifetime, to do so, but I can cross one off the list with the production of some kind of decent entry here. So, seeing as it's only 1am, and we all know (or will do before the end of this sentence) that I can't seem to go to sleep before 6 in the morning at the moment, this leaves 5 potential hours of quality blogging time, unless I am distracted by the call of the PS2 (possible) or the seemingly constantly deminuating in appeal option of Sky Movies overnight programming (current offering Indecent Seduction, aka For My Daughters Honour, 'starring' er, Gary Cole. Unlikely.) So unless I suddenly feel the need to go and conduct a Navy Seal operation, I have plenty of time to sit here and waffle on pointlessly. That's right folks, it's an unexciting life I lead after 1am on a weekday these days (although more exciting than being asleep, I suppose) and you reap all the benefits of my boredom. I already fixed the archives (try to ignore the current ugliness of the archive page) this evening and WHO KNOWS what further excitement may yet be achieved!*

So when last we (properly) left our hero, I was threatening to tell people all about the events of some weekend I had in 1987 or something, or it seems like that. Well, I was young, and needed the money. No, seriously, a quick use of the scroll bar reveals it was in fact the weekend beginning Friday the 19th of September, back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth, and aliens held dominion over our planet and ruled it with an iron tentacle. Eventually of course, as history texts will show, I lead a heroic herd of 11 ankylosaurs (each given a chance to sign up for our suicide mission to escape the death sentences or lengthy jail sentences they faced for serious crimes they had committed) into a desparate charge down the valley into the guns at Balaclava, succeeded in hitting the reactor shaft with a proton torpedo designed by Barnes Wallis, and drove the bastards from our galaxy. But this was before that great day, and the grimace of disgust at the unrealistic and outrageous banana taxes of our brutal alien masters was evident on every face at the UCSA Club Olympics.

I'm not sure how I found myself at the UCSA Club Olympics. For that matter as I arrived at the UCSA some 30 minutes before the scheduled start, I was fairly unsure as to what the UCSA Club Olympics actually constituted. Visions of the 3 Wood Hurl, 100 Metre Trundler Dash and Freestyle Mammoth Bashing had danced through my head (along with other equally appalling jokes based on such a flimsy pun) like so many sugar plums. However, before I was able to think of further semi-obscure Christmas poem references to blog down later, Dramasoc had me kitted out in a stripy shirt, lime green pants with fluffy purple things on the bottom, a shiny golden jacket and a pair of round glasses. For you see, it was Talk Like a Pirate Day (arr!) and we were determined that if we were not up to the contest athletically, we should at least win the prizes for best costume, in order to get the extra 100 points on offer for this in the Club Champs or something. What this meant in actuality however was a very inpropmtu raid on the costume room, where we hurriedly decided that our theme was, in accordance with Talk Like a Pirate Day, Peter Pan. That was me, apparently, though I was the oldest, and hairiest. However, as I noted in that earlier post, due to the last minute scramble, what I actually ended up looking like was a cross between Elton John and Harry Potter, or possibly Peter Pan as he would have appeared in Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. We also had two Tinkerbells, and Captain Hook's hat would have looked considerably more at home on a Mexican farm worker (he discarded it). However, aided by the properly piratical attitude, we carried off best costume anyway. What we didn't carry off was the points for actually winning, for verily we were a bunch of unfit bastards, in what ended up as a 250 metre sprint, following a 250 metre 'obstacle' (for 'obstacle' read 'lame things thrown together in a last minute fashion by the organisers' course while carrying a crate full of those ball-pit plastic balls. I hit the crate on a post within about 30 metres and spilled them everywhere. Damn. Bloody hell I was disturbingly knackered, especially given the previous night had been the after party for Threesome, featuring a lot of beer and an early morning conclusion. After such a workout, the solution was clearly more beer. More beer it was, despite the many funny looks gay Harry Potter had thrown his way in The Foundry (and with good cause, after all). Luckily I was hanging out with 2 pirates, a couple of fairies and an American Indian (Tigerlily) so I didn't feel quite as self-conscious in a bar full of engineering students as I might have done on my own.

So following a period of transition from one place to another, featuring hot bus catching action, and some tasty pizza at the Dux De Luxe, I found myself in town with exciting new up and comers Nicholas Mason and Charlie Campbell, wily veteran Will Bryant, and the seasoned campaigners Adam and Johnathan Smith. Together we formed an exciting new drinking combination. Eagerly we leapt forward to test our set moves against Santorinis, only to come up against an unexpected play from the opposition in the form of a shameless and very friendly Danish woman on the wrong side of 40 named something like 'Gurkha' or 'Bonza' or 'Panda' or something (none could seem to agree afterwards - perhaps our brains acted to spare us some of the disturbing details). At any rate she proceeded to drape herself over Adam, John, and then me, and you can tell that a woman is both shameless and waaaay too drunk when she asks me to dance. Thankfully, shortly after my quite frankly blatant and barely disguised attempt to scrape her off onto Charlie (which he saw through immediately, damn him) she went home with someone who I think was most likely her husband. Ah, but it was all harmless fun really, and she was very nice despite the HORROR, oh God the HORROR. No but seriously. It was OK.

Anyway, play continued, with Nic and Charlie making some nice probes on the flanks with some well timed ouzo, and Will providing solid support at the breakdown. I went for the spectacular gamewinner with something called a 'Toxo', (Greek for 'rainbow' I gather) which is 4 different and distinct colours in the one shotglass (impressive), but that backfired somewhat and I was lucky to escape a career-threatening injury.

While we toiled away in the excellent conditions, there was a Greek hen party going on, involving much conga-ing around the place and girly laughing and dancing on barrels, so that was all good. At some point a woman came over to our group of young rugged manly individuals leaning stoically on their corner of the bar nursing their drinks and told us that as part of the traditional festivities they needed a piece of man's clothing. Righto I thought, and whipped off my right sock, wondering what they were going to do with it. Duely they took off with it. I was keeping an eye out for what crazy thing might be done with my sock. Nothing happened. A bit later, nothing still happened. Slowly it dawned on me I was not going to get my sock back. The idea was my sock had made the transformation from apparel to treasured wedding momento / family heirloom. This was confirmed when original sock-requesting woman reappeared with the bride-to-be, asking if I was 'the guy with the sock' (an apt description; only minutes ago I had been 'the guy with two socks, just like everyone else in the room ). Apparently they had to photograph the sock-giver kissing the bride (not sure how far this particular tradition goes back). Duly I did, and now somewhere my sock presumably sits next to a photo of me kissing her on the cheek. I was tempted to ask what would have happened if I'd donated 2 socks, or possibly my t-shirt, but settled for smiling and wishing her good luck. I hope her marriage goes well; it seems very strange to think of her in 2 or 3 years, sitting alone signing the divorce papers, and tearfully setting fire to my sock to rid herself of the horrible memories. So at any rate, there I was in town with one sock on, and feeling somewhat strange.

We then took my one sock to Mickey Finn's, where my brother Josh has started working, for the time being until a promotion, as a 'glassie'. His is a truly taxing job. He picks up the empty glasses, and takes them to the bar. Apparently there are 4 glassies there at any time total, so they tend to hover around the soon to become empty glasses akin to a pack of hungry hyenas. There were no unusual occurrences at Mickey Finn's, unless you count the fact we actually got Charlie to go there. Instead I rather antisocially spent 20 minutes or so texting people. Having condemned cellphones and their unnecessary nature, I find myself texting people rather a lot. It is a fairly silly method of communciation (although it gets the big thumbs up for use in loud bars in which you can't hear the phone ring, or people talk on the other end) but somewhat addictive, also cheaper than actually ringing in most cases. Thankfully I have not yet succumbed to writing such messages as 'C U L8R', the authors of which should be universally killed. KILLED, I say! After that it was back to Picton, to be cuddled up to by Max the slutty cat, feline warmth manwhore. Mustn't get too insulting about someone that will actually sleep with me, though. The little guy is a pretty good hot water bottle himself, although I tend to worry more about crushing him while asleep than I do with a hot water bottle. Hasn't happened yet over quite a few nights though. Clearly he has an instinct for survival.

Next day perennial Picton houseguests Charlie and I booted up Halo and combatted the alien menace, like we did back in 'Nam, for 5 blood-soaked hours or so. We have played enough weekend Halo together now that if an actual war started up and we were conscripted we'd probably have to team up for real. Truly the approach of Fireteam Ben and Charlie strikes fear into the hearts of the despicable fictional Covenant at least, for we are a two man force of devestation. We are also a two man force of yelling at the screen and appropriate movie quoting. What better way to spend a hungover rainy Saturday than sitting in the glow of the television and yelling such things as 'Fire in the hole!', 'Incoming!' 'Remember...short, controlled bursts' 'Get some. GET SOME!!!' 'You like that? You like that? You want some more?' 'Biiaaaarrccch!' and 'BOOya!' at it. Charlie in particular seems to harbour some special hatred for our pixellated foes, like they molested his sister and left her with no remaining limbs or something. So I tend to sit at the back and provide calm but efficient fire support, while he gives in to the rage and tears forward yelling profanities, with no regard for his own personal safety. Of course every so often the red mist comes over me as well, and I have to wade in with the rifle butt yelling 'Bludgeon! BLUUUUUUUUDGEON!!!' (such a good word) until I come to, unsure of where I am and surrounded by bloodied alien corpses with dented skulls. And they claim video games make people violent, pshaw! (Again this blog can only hope that this sort of thing is a sign of red blooded maleness, rather than some sort of repressed psychosis.)

So following Charlie and I giving ourselves to our inner paramilitary psychos for most of the day, I put in a brief appearance at Josh's (belated) flatwarming, where nearly everyone had gone. So I sat down and quietly drank some Speights while I watched Chelsea thrash Wolverhampton 5-0 on Sky Digital. Then there was some confusion as to where the hell Josh's flatmate Lachlan was (answer: wandering very drunk through the hosing rain) , an ordering of taxis to come to his rescue, some cock-up, making the taxi go away again, Josh going to Lachlan's rescue, me continuing to watch soccer, Josh turning up with very drunk Lachlan, them both going to bed, me continuing to watch soccer. Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink was subbed off, unfortunately for purposes of my entertainment, as I find his name so ridiculous. Then there was a loud thump on the wall from Lachlan's bedroom. Investigating, I found him lieing on the floor completely ensnared in his own duvet (he was remarkably tightly tied up in it). It transpired that he had fallen out of the bed, got lost in the duvet (Aside: doona. What a stupid word. Stupid Australians.) in the dark, tangled himself up completely cocoon like, and had only managed to signal for help by throwing a nearby shoe at the wall with his one partially free arm. Being sober and having the power to turn the lights on, I was able to extricate him fairly simply from this predicament, for which he was amusingly grateful. Then I watched the end of the soccer and went home.

Right, so that was my weekend 3 weekends ago. Phew, this catching up on the blogging is slow work. However, it can be sped up a bit perhaps with the coverage of last weekend, which went like this: beer, Chinese food, random guy named Jeff, beeeeeeer, watching the sun come up at the JP with Fi and Matt, alien killing carnage with Charlie, bus trip with Josh for his girlfriend's 21st, beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer, Karaoke, beeer, Hoo-House, sleep. NO money left. Oh and somewhere in there I seem to have lost my passport. The one before that - well, the one before that actually has a few stories in it as well, but it would take a while to get into them. Suffice it perhaps to say that martinis taste as much like petrol as they did the first time I ever got drunk, I wore a paisley dressing gown and a tie for the first time ever simultaneously, I still can't drink wine, and 15 or so people wearing poorly constucted paper hats is a strange sight indeed, perhaps even more so sober (photos possibly to come on that actually).

If this all the stories of drinking and beer gives the impression that I've become some kind of crazy John Belushi in Animal House party animal, well it's because it seems I have sort of become a crazy John Belushi in Animal House party animal. I blame 19 months of not really having anything to do, apart from my thesis, and I obviously haven't been doing that (Who actually takes 2 years of writing to write their thesis? Anyone?) Good grief, full-time work again eventually is going to be a shock to the system (sotto voce: better do a Phd, ha). Unfortunately this sort of manic largely alcoholically fuelled social activity frenzy seems to be, if anything, increasing as I approach crunch time, AND there's going to be televised cricket, AND there's going to be spending every Saturday playing it (this might serve to curb the more spectacular Friday night excesses, I suppose), AND there's gonna be sunshiney-run- around-outdoorsy-type weather, AND chances to go away and do cool things in cool places.

Goddamnit. I hate having made my own bed and being forced to lie in it. Stupid procrastination and complete lack of self-discipline and general bone idleness. MUST...WRITE...THESIS. Say it with me, people.

OK and it's 5:33 and bedtime and what a load of bollocks.

Here then is an abrupt end to this blog.

*You, now. Looks like it was not much then.