Biggest post ever...

Right then me old muck-a-mucks, I said I would post and post I shall. Working on the theory of slow bedtime pull back, I reckon I've got an hour to start writing this before I have to flee to my place of sleep. We (er, the royal we) make the time slightly more sane each night, starting with 4am today, and then 3:30am tomorrow, and so on, and by about Thursday next week I reckon, I will wake up at 7am and find that the Thesis Fairies will have left 40,000 words of eloquently constructed argument at the foot of my bed (in a heap, perhaps). I'll have to make them some new fairy clothes of course, which may prove difficult, as in Form 1 Clothng alone I broke 6 sewing machine needles (the long suffering Mrs Shallard took to calling me 'Private Benjamin'. I can only assume this was because of my propensity for causing snafus, and not because I had any resemblance to Goldie Hawn), but I will have to give it a go, because I wouldn't want them to go putting some kind of curse on me, but then I suppose it would serve me right for feeding Gizmo after midnight, or something.

Anyway, an hour shall not be long enough, so I shall just have to make this one of the old multi-part posts where what I say at the start is overtaken by events before I actually post the thing, and it ends up relatively useless, especially in parts like this where I explain how the very sentence I am even now writing is a waste of space. Perhaps we'll just dispense with that 'pop will eat itself' bunkum then (but so easy to use it to mindlessly up the word count! Oh well.) and get right on to something that can't really be outdated, what with having gone past sometime ago now - three Saturdays, in fact, by the time I actually post this. I refer of course to the small matter of a certain game of rugby.

Now, in the wake of the AB's loss to Australia, there was a lot of comments I heard from people along the lines of 'well, we lost, damn, no big deal though really, I'm over it'. Well, despite the rant I seem to be about to launch into, I can in fact largely put my own position along those lines, especially when you look at the bosom-beating and hair-tearing that went on after the last semi-final loss (France! What the HELL, let's flay John Hart alive, the entire country seems to be totally depressed, the Prime Minister comments etc.) However, some (not all) of these comments seem to come along with a sort of 'sport is crap / the fact that all these people care so much indicates how stupid / primitive / macho New Zealand society is'. No no NO.

I have never played rugby in any serious fashion, bar the odd lunchtime game or kick about. Yet I had a serious, if not vested, interest in the Rugby World Cup, and in particular (duh) the campaign of the All Blacks. While that probably puts me in line with most of the rest of the country, I seem to hang out with quite a few of those people, among the minority, that somehow make me feel that I am somehow a non-sophisticate for in fact caring if we win or not. Now I'm sure that these people would say that they do not think this is the case at all. And I know what the 'anti-rugby' thing is all about, some people just don't like the game, but lots of people don't like the whole 'rugbyhead' phenomenon that is associated with it. And I am with them, who would? Your average full-on rugbyhead, much like your average full-on boy racer, is a dick. (I think someone somewhere should definitely change the caption at the end of those speeding ads featuring 'Todd' so clearly pitched at the good old youth of today from 'Speeding slows you down" to "Boy racers: tossers".)

But I don't think your average rugby fan / player is in fact a 'rugbyhead'. I think of many of the people I know with anti-rugby sort of agendas seem to have this view, I simply just don't think it's right. And you tend to hear a lot of irksome statements like 'New Zealand has no real culture, it's just all about rugby' and 'National identity should not be based upon a sports team'. ARRRGGGHH. New Zealand DOES have a culture (however hard it may be to define - like any other culture) and I will not hear otherwise. I have lived here for 25 years and I am proud to be a kiwi, and I know that indelibly, I am one and will always be. I do not exist in a cultural vaccum down here at the bottom of the world, I (for however many similarities / imports there may be) do not live in a cultural carbon copy of the US / Britain / anywhere else, and I can determine my differences to people from other cultures, and I can see national characteristics in evidence. And yes, hard luck, I'm sorry, but some of this is based on sport. That's how it is. NZ is proud of it's sportsmen and women, that's it. And you can say this is not healthy, or whatever, but if you look at history and heritage and pride and whatever as important factors in the formation of indentity, things like the 1905 All Blacks tour were important to this country. Rugby continues to be important to this country. More than any other sport (or perhaps any other thing) it is a common bond for people who are raised here, even across a lot of problem areas like race or class or whatever. For whatever reason, people that lived here found they liked it. Then they found they were rather good at it. And those that didn't play were happy to be inspired and proud of our nation continuing to (essentially) over-achieve at this thing, in an enduring fashion. So what? It's might be important, but it's certainly not the only thing we do well or take pride in - look at the (mostly justifiable) recent Lord of the Rings hooplah, for example. (I don't think we'll see Frodo going over in the corner in the tackle of Sauron for an 80th minute game winning ring destruction.)

I'm not sure what position on the scale I'm coming from here. Chatting to someone in that sort of Dramasoc group the other day with brother Dan, I was taken aback when she said she thought we were the most sports obsessed family she knew, (although in this case she didn't mean it as a condemnation of any kind) and Dan said someone else had told him that too. What? I thought, thinking of any number of more sport obsessed people than myself. I don't think I'm obsessed with sport at all, but to some people it clearly seems that I am - these are in general people that seem to regard rugby not merely as non-interesting, but as positively abhorrent, like an evil that should be cleansed from the earth, who roll their eyes in disgust when you tell them that you will be along slightly late to something, because you'll be watching the All Black test first, as if demonstrating an interest (however casual) in rugby has lowered you in their opinion. (I hasten to add I am not thinking of anyone specific here, not anyone who might be reading this anyway :)

What am I getting at? Well, simply that if in general, we regard some rugby obsessed macho wanker with a one track mind who spouts 'drama / music / soccer is for fags' who beats up his girlfriend after an All Black loss as a laughable and outdated (if still existing in largeish numbers) stereotype, with an extremely narrow mind, as I believe most people in NZ now would, what do we make of the people who say 'rugby is evil / ruining this country / only played and enjoyed by macho thickie homophobic neanderthal rednecks'? Have these people met my mother, a solid supporter of the All Blacks and general rugby fan? It's just stereotyping from the other end, and easier to get away with because it's still a sort of a minority backlash movement around these parts. The backlash was fair enough and a while coming (see Foreskin's Lament, thanks 7th form English) but shouldn't be an excuse for narrow-mindedness from the other extreme. Not liking rugby, fine. Not liking or looking down on normal people who like rugby, well, that just makes you a rugbyhead in reverse.

Anyway, this was just a big justification I felt I had to make to come out and say in what sometimes feels like the anti-caring-about-sport environment that I live in, that we lost, and I did care, as I think many people did but perhaps did not say so, or covered it up with 'who cares, really' type statements (I feel like a champion for the closet sports enthusiasts. How weird). We lost and I was quite pissed off. For the next 2 or 3 days, I would remember that we had lost, and go 'bugger' internally. Not the end of the world, not even greatly depressing, but not really just a game either. A World Cup semi-final, in fact. Against Australia, no less. Damn, and damn again. And by all means let's all get on our lives, but let's not deny the fact that it was at least worth noting, as Torsh did, oh the horror. I feel it was OK to be slightly upset. Slightly upset I was. Now OK. Life's rich tapestry continues.

OK, so now it's Wednesday night and I'm waiting for Josh to come back with the Return of the King game for PS2. Apparently if we play all the way through this (we'll have to do it in one night to avoid extended hire charges, but luckily we are exactly the type of crazy staying up late playing Playstation and drinking Coke wildcats that can take this task on.) we should see up to half an hour's footage of the movie. And here he is. Time to suspend the narrative again and check it out.

Right, so that was about 4 days ago. Must have been a good game indeed! No, have been up to other things as well. And I can report the game was cool, although it is essentially Golden Axe, but very pretty, and with the voice of a bunch of Hollywood stars and a guy who has been knighted for his services to acting (Golden Axe the movie, now that would be good. The Governor of California as the Warrior obviously, Danny Devito as the axe wielding blonde bearded dwarf, and some glamour chick who looks good in red 'armour' as the Amazon. Lucy Lawless for example could do it in her sleep. Or Eliza Dushku. Mmmmm, Dushku). 'Take that!' yells Ian McKellen, as you stab the X button repeatedly in an effort to get on-screen Gandalf to mow through the bunch of orcs between him and the catapault he needs to fire at the advancing cave trolls. Jolly good stuff really, lots of extras on the disc too with interviewing people and so on, Elijah Wood getting all excited about the concept of being a playable character, that sort of thing, but let down somewhat by the last level, (Mark, and anyone else who hasn't read the books: stop reading! Now! Skip a paragraph) which is pretty silly. In it the 2 players are Frodo and Sam, inside Mount Doom on the platform where Elrond and Isildur were seen in Fellowship of the Ring. Gollum does his bit and bites Frodo's finger off and gets the ring. Then you have to beat him off the edge into the lava. But it is not that simple, because he has become super Gollum, impervious to damage by swords, and possessor of nasty hitting and hitting-with-jumping styles. And after about 4 attempts at it, when we succeeded in beating him off for the first time, thinking 'sweet, that's Middle Earth saved, then' we were dismayed when a cut scene showed him catching on to the cliff and climbing back up. You have to beat him off like 5 times (We got 4 maybe twice). After one or two times, lava bombs start raining on you from the roof. There is precious little health. There one area and nowhere is nowhere to run to. Gollum appears to be operating on PCPs. All in all, the thing is rather difficult. Josh and I played this level, non-stop, for about an hour and a half. We had started the level at 4 in the morning after drinking plenty of Coke, and after 90 minutes of having Gollum hand our arses to us, full of sugar and low on sleep, the whole thing just became comically absurd. We were giggling like schoolgirls as Gollum bitch slapped us up and down and all around Mount Doom. Eventually we were forced to give in, it was too silly, Gollum was an unstoppable bouncy powerhouse, and weakened by laughing so hard, we would restart and both be dead within 30 seconds (Cue anguished giggly calls of 'Mr Frodo! Nooooooo! or 'You lisping bastard, you killed my gardener! Again!). So we didn't finish the game, but came close. Anyway the game, in which you run round Minas Tirith, Pelennor Fields, Shelob's Lair, the Halls of the Dead etc, all designs of which are taken pretty much directly from the movie sets, certainly served to indicate how double plus good the film will in fact be. Bring it.

Another break here for sleep. Hopefully this one will be slightly shorter than 4 days. But writing this now I make no promises to myself.

Well, only 24 hours between line breaks after all. And blogging from bed seems to be undergoing something of a renaissance. Laptops, eh? Good for going on top of your lap, much like, er, Lapland. Who'd have thought. I would have thought all those reindeer would be most uncomfortable. Clearly not.

Anyway, not much of use that I have done today, save play soccer, read Farenheit 451 (which Nic lent me) for the first time, and watch NZ lose its last 5 wickets for 3 runs against Pakistan. It's a hard life. Dan (back from the by all accounts boring and generally useless late night shift at K Mart - hmmm, deja vu backto Armoursnore) and I were most put out when Chris Cairns, who had got through to 29 and was looking like he was on the cusp of going entertainingly ballistic, was needlessly run out. Bugger. Guess we made the mistake of caring about sport again. Oh well, pretty much after that we were entertained in a different sort of 'ha, oh dear God' way by the number of New Zealand batsmen who arrived at the crease only to depart after an extremely brief period of time at the crease with their middle stump well and truly displaced. 4 in all, I think it was, 2 first ball. Mohammed Sami, bowling at 150 kilometers an hour, took 4 wickets in one over, and 5 for 2 in his second spell, meaning we went from 155 for 4 to 157 all out. Ouch. Game 3, anyone? Never mind, I was able to plough through Ray Bradbury at a good rate while we were taking a hammering. Good book, although it seemed to be espousing a position I found uncomfortably elitist at one point, although in the context of the whole argument about the dumbing down of culture and the shortening of the attention span I was largely in agreement (he said, writing about Playstation games, in his blog), and I don't think Bradbury himself was suggesting eugenics or Brave New World as a more positive future or anything at all, more suggesting differing levels of achievement in society is something that people that should be prepared to put up with (or certainly not determined to eliminate at any cost). So largely I was not only in agreement with the 'message' of the book but also thought it well written. Good message, well written - truly I am a literary critic of prodigious perspicacity.

So last weekend was pretty big. AND the previous weekend. A series of large weekends seems to be stringing itself together, almost in some kind of series, with a series-like pattern of serial repetition. So one is much like another, somehow...but we will go back to the weekend before last because I have to eulogise Picton. Ah, Picton (it's only a model). Second flat to first be a personage of some import, and then a New Zealand town, and then a street, and then a flat. So you'd think my Mum would have worked it out, after some time of me saying 'I'm off down to Hamilton'. But no, early on in the piece, I leave a note on the white board saying 'gone to Picton' and she gets in a semi-panic under the impression I've run away from home or something. Luckily brothers wise in the ways of such things were on hand to explain on that occasion...where then must we rank this person-town-street flat in the pantheon of Great TBALC Affiliated Flats? I'm thinking it has to be a pretty solid third, following Chateau, and of course, Xanadu. While a solid performer in most areas, I'm afraid it lagged in the 'Locale of Social Trauma' category, and was well down in the 'Number of Times Ben Threw Up In It' index (just the one, I think). However, there were gains in other areas. It's score for example in the 'Damnably Close To Blockbuster, Caltex, Subway and KFC' is unmatched, the X Box factor was an important consideration that goes hand in hand with the Big Comfy Couch feature (the latter being very important to the flat's role as a rest stop / sleep stop / pie-eating venue / provider of dry clothes on one particular occasion on the walk from town to my house), and so was its status as 'Initial Silly Occasionally Psycho Seal Stealth Cat Stalking Ground'. The party hosting quotient also saw marked improvement towards the end of its run. 7 out of 10 then, but because I also have to give extra marks to any flat I have broken into with a fork (which I found, naturally enough, in the garden), 7.2 out of 10.

No more Picton means no more den of iniquity within easy walking distance, unless I want to go and harass Peverel St a great deal more than I currently have done, and I'm not sure what their new known to no-one apparently born again Christian flatmate would think about that. It's not quite the same with the random flatmate added. I feel I have to curtail my full and healthy sloth and buffoonery somewhat. Luckily Glen (being the sort-of-but-not-really random flatmate at Picton), to his great credit, hardly resisted our cultural assimilation process much at all (resistance is, after all, futile), and we were all soon at home merrily insulting each other. Not sure about this new guy at Peverel St though, he doesn't seem to have that 'I'll just stroll in at 11 at night then shall I, and no-one that lives here will care too much' vibe about him. We shall see. No doubt Claire, Dave and James will break his spirit some, and soon he'll be making jokes about how God turned out to be down the back of the couch all along. Or possibly be killed and eaten. One wonders.

Anyway, Picton and its bronze medal (disappointed by a questionable score from the East German judge) were seen off in style 2 weekends ago, with a good time had (and I am just going to speak presumptuously for 'all' here) by all. The only unfortunate absences were Warwick and Bhumi (poorly) Michelle (slack?) and Dan (joining a foreign legion), and Fi had Oranjeboom, so I bravely took it upon myself to quaff some of that in Dan's honour, so although he may not have been there in spirit, he was certainly there in beer (sorry. Couldn't help myself.) The nightmare rugby final scenario, Australia Vs. England - who exactly to cheer for? - was mostly avoided bar the odd score check, and then a few gathered round to watch extra time, by most accounts the best part of the game anyway. Few, including me I suppose, ultimately begrudged England their win (our rationality dulled by alcohol I suppose). Then it was off to town for a bit, care of an amused Dave, and once again I had managed to emerge from a party leaving a great deal of hair behind me. It's lucky I don't have any vengeful ex-girlfriends who dabble in the occult, because I would surely be an extremely easy target for all manner of voodoo curses. I also have paranoid fantasies about my attackers (er, sorry, hairdressers) making thousands from the sale of my former follicles to waiting wigmakers, without me getting my righteous recompense...but these are no doubt deluded daydreams (definitely). In town our semi-final loss was good in a way, because as the All Blacks had not been involved, I was able to congratulate several people in England jerseys wandering about, and commiserate others in Australian jerseys, and there was not much of that 'simmering drunken rugbyheads on the losing side of a world cup final looking for a fight' atmosphere about. Indeed, even the Aussies about seemed cheerful, perhaps because they were in N.Z and had already beaten us. So after hanging around for a bit in Zinc (Slogan: just like a bar on the Strip, but with carpet, and the chance to sit down!) watching the Georgian parliament being stormed (surreal to go to a bar and watch BBC World, as Tim noted), and finishing off the staff's completely inept attempt at a Midori Splice for Tim (chocolate? What the hell?), we (or I, anyway) zig-zagged to the Strip where Tim and I decided to hell with the Bog and took the last walk back to the Picton cache. (After some confusion on my part, as Tim also noted. Damn park, in the dark.) Here's hoping I don't suffer the fate of Scott, Oates and company without it there from now on ("I'm going to Totara Street now. I may be some time." And he strode out of the Night N'Day into the maelstrom, and was seen no more...)

No Picton is probably bad news for my social life then, but fantastic news for me getting my thesis written on time. Hmmm, I'm so confused about what emotion to feel. I'll go for this: Hurray!(sob).

Right, sleep, again. Next: tales of last weekend.

Tired of the same old routine weekend after weekend last time round then, and deciding it was time to branch out, I opted for the radically different direction of going to some parties and drinking some beer. Firstly on Friday it was off to the new flat of Fi, Charlie, and Pete, strategically located in a defensible position at the top of the Unlit Stairway of Almost Certain Death. Once you pass the 27 or so Building Code violations and the 3 dessicated corpses of those who were not prudent enough to be carrying spare oxygen going into the place, the flat itself is rather cool. Some hours were spent (in a surprise move) drinking some beer, making Nic cave like the weak-willed sap he is and once again give the lie to his 'I'm not drinking' call (this is getting too easy though. Might have to stop) and, along with Emily, (when she could eventually be talked into taking the step of actually standing on the balcony) determining the best trees and large bushes to stage dive / ninja flip into from the second floor in the event of fire, earthquake or Vermicious Knid attack. At about 1am, in deference to the neighbours, who apparently live in the hall cupboard, we gathered a posse and went to Sammy's. Which was good. There was Kathleen Turner Overdrive, and they were good. Pete (our Pete) showed up and I got to have a chat with him, which was good (especially as I failed to see him any of the rest of the time he was here, for various him and me doing stuff reasons). And then it was off down the road to Foam (motto: Just like a bar on the Strip, only not really much at all, and sort of wanky and sterile, and with Sarah's current boyfriend DJing at it! *) There we played pool, which I was sufficiently drunk to suck at. I was then almost kicked out (well, not really, slightly taken exception to by bouncer-esque guy) for having the temerity to ice-skate around their smooth concrete floor on my smooth-soled ( 3 years of tennis court soccer at high school) shoes, but my more sober female friends ran over in my defence and batted their eyelashes at him (thanks guys), and so he let me off as long as I promised to keep any further Torville and Dean impersonations to a minimum. Somehow I think Foam is a bit of an NSB (Non-Shennanigans Bar). Then after a diversion to BK it was home to Totara St care of Pete (the bass player) and his car with custom built talking MP3 player, which, being drunk, I must have said 'wow, cool' at approximately 162 times. Texted Dan when I got home, found him heading back my way from his local the Treehouse, and ordered up the third pie of the evening for delivery. Dan and pie arrived. Dan good, pie bloody awful. My new rule of thumb is never spend less than 3 dollars on a pie. Pie and a bit of a chat completed, the 2 elder Allan boys then hit the hay around 4:45am for a solid 4 and a half hours of sleep before cricket. Fools.

After a fairly indifferent but in the end not catastrophic performance by our team on Saturday (lack of sleep not a major factor in the batting, but might have hampered the fielding in the late afternoon more than a bit), finery was donned, and it was off to Mog and Raewyn's '21st' at eCosm, party venue extrordinaire. And here, again, I will speak for all, who seemed to be having the proverbial good time, despite the presence of Blueberry and Lychee (yeah, lychee, righto) Vodka Fusion drinks. I contented myself with Heineken and looking like Michael Douglas in Falling Down, care of (brother) Dan's sunglasses. Actually the number of comments I got about how glasses look good on me mean I may have to consider poking myself in the eye with a needle or something, so that I need them from now on. Anyway, there was sparkling repartee, constantly having to avert my eyes from James T's shirt, watching the fireworks from Christmas in the Park (motto: Christmas, but in November!) reflected in a skyscraper, eating the yummy dips, getting ridiculously amused at watching Si and Des try to out guilt trip each other, and having everyone try on the magic glasses (they managed to make everyone look like slightly reminiscent of someone famous) as well as, of course, the drinking of beer. Good job I say Mog and Raewyn. Good job everyone else too on the high standard of both conversation and dress. Very bourgeoise, I suspect we'll all be first against the wall, but let them eat cake, I enjoyed the decadence immensely.

From eCosm it was on with those keen enough (some were scared away by the queue, little knowing we were to bypass it entirely. Nyahahaaaa, go knowing the right people) to harass Nic in his new role as purveyor of various opiates to the masses (and by his account the opiate of choice for many folks round these parts is bourbon. Errcchh). He looked harangued. Unfortunately standing around watching Nic being harangued in a loud overcrowded bar, having the conversation that goes like this:

Me: How's it going so far?
Nic: Wahfwaaahhh! Acannom monen sporky blig!
Me: What?
Nic: Acannom monen sporky blig!
Me: HUH?
Nic: SPORKY BLIG!
Me: (nodding non-commitally) RIGHT!

...is not as entertaining in the long term as you might think, and as there was certainly no other point in standing around in Viaduct, I adjourned to an outside table with a few like-minded individuals to have a conversation in English, wondering if I had just agreed in principle to having Nic cut off both my ears to make a necklace, or something. Although sadly by this point the converstaional witticisms had declined in quality in direct correlation with rising alcohol intakes throughout the evening, it was nevertheless a prime opportunity for sitting there and giggling at how everything in the world ever was (and is) silly in some way. This was done for some time. Then I freeloaded a taxi ride back to Peverel (all the bloggers: note the spelling now. That's it there.) Street care of the generous Claire, decided the thought of walking 4 minutes to my house was too much, and elected to crash on the couch (too short but not bad) finery and all, little suspecting that even as I slept, somewhere, James T. was being mistaken for a gay stalker.

So that was last weekend. God, there's been another one since then, and a week in between that saw some (but not enough) thesis, Tim and I battling the restless dead (again. They're persistent, these restless dead) and heroics on the touch field, but I haven't been to bed on Sunday night (Monday morning) yet, so this one technically isn't over, and as this post is now too long (TOO long! Too long, to begin the training), and a week and a half old, those stories (which everyone already knows after all, anyway), may just have to wait until later. In summary, which might be as far as I ever get: N.Z lost games 3,4 and 5 (damn), journalists struggle with e-mail, there's something psychological in the fact Tim always plays the dwarf, I dodged some people good, 2 people on a flying fox is perhaps not such a good idea, we saved ourselves at cricket, the Goodies are funny, Underworld was something of a disappointment, and some people are taken aback to a surprising level by me wearing odd shoes. My Mum, for instance.

And now let's post this sucker.

*Update: no longer, I'm told. Told you this post was too long.