Post-Section the First, the Lionhearted

Nothing to say, but that's OK (Good morning, good morning)

Well, while you can tell that I'm not writing my thesis when I'm blogging, you can really tell that I'm not writing it when I don't blog at all. This is because no blog entries means I have not really been near university or computers, and instead have devoted most of my time to sitting around in a kind of witless daze, doing very little indeed. I suppose this might be termed 'life'. My 'life' has been pleasant enough lately, I suppose, but of very little use to anyone (except perhaps, as always, to the Coca-Cola corporation). So I'm afraid this will not be an entry of useful information and tales of high adventure, as I semi-promised last time. Instead it will fall very much into the 'haven't written anything for a while, about bloody time I do so, must fill the web with meaningless twaddle and appease Tim and Mark, the hardline secret blog police' category. As it's only 1:20am now too, I might be expatiating on for some time, so I'll take the opportunity to warn off detesters of said meaningless twaddle right now in the first ominously self-referential paragraph. Oh, it's all so postmodern my head hurts etc...I might see if I can come up with some material of a less navel-gazing nature as we go along. Don't hold your breath though.

Certainly not through this next bit, for if you do you'll be short of oxygen indeed, because an account of last weekend’s activities is probably in order, if we can get the parts. We'll have to get Vic to get them in from Korea, and it won't be cheap, I can tell you...but no, last weekend was filled with large amounts of beer. Amounts of beer that were in fact probably even greater than those of the previous weekend, which I think most who were there will agree went poorly for one Benjamin Joseph Allan (although good work everyone at the final Chateau party, great to see so many people there and have such a good time – up until a point at least. Damn that familiar and particular point, it’s always so damn pointy), but despite this, sensible levels were maintained, and the damage was not to my pride, public standing or reputation but merely my liver and general wellbeing (and who needs those, really?). Oktoberfest began early this year, on Thursday, when for some reason it was decided that there should be the drinking of beer, as some kind of associated ritual that traditionally goes with the hunt for the mythical beast known as ‘a few quiets’. I think it was the fault of the Political Science department. Well, as Special Attaché to the Political Science Department, I was of course bound to follow diplomatic protocol, and at least keep up appearances, lest there be some kind of inter-departmental incident, what with tensions being so high after Pol Sci fighters entered Journalism airspace last month. Duly I showed up at Bentley’s and bravely drank beer with these swine, making sure I kept my outward signs of disgust to a minimum. Therein followed a somewhat unexpected Big Night Thursday, that saw myself and Dan (former Pol Sci, now reformed, thanks to the Persuadertron) tagging along with Corey and Claire of Political Science to the cultural mecca that is the Rockycola Café. Pool was played, shakers were drunk, strange men named Ewan were repelled politely but firmly. All was rosy. Chalk up one night of beer.

Then on Friday, it was decided that as a change of pace, there should be the drinking of beer. This time round the occasion was the mighty second placing of our post-grad netball team, as has previously been noted in song and story (Tim wrote the song, you should really hear it, it’s very moving. I cried at the bit when he caught the ball and hurt his injured finger slightly). So as to appropriately reward our titanic effort, the organisers of the tournament had been so generous has to present us with the handsome reward of – try to contain your awe – a twenty dollar Bentley’s bar tab to be spread evenly between the 8 of us. Unfortunately, the Herculean task of consuming $2.50 worth of alcoholic beverages proved simply too daunting for some, who did not dare to show their faces, and so, of the team, Tim, myself and a brace of Katies were thrown very much in at the deep end. I can report that all handled themselves with aplomb. While Tim eventually faltered under the pressure and minced off to ‘mark essays’, the aplomb was manfully continued for some time with Nic, Corey, Dan, cousin Calum and his friend Tim doing our best for Queen and Country, struggling heroically against the insanely cheap price of Monteith’s. In the end Tim S. returned, sheepishly and rather obviously holding his manhood cheap, as indeed we all did, although he went up in our estimation somewhat by evacuating us to Picton, where the beer could no longer hurt us. Deprived of further entertainment at this point, Tim and I skulked off to The Hulk, despite the fact I had been telling people in the pub only an hour or two earlier I didn’t really care about it in the least and wouldn’t mind if I didn’t see it. Well, it really should be evident to all and sundry by now that I’m full of it. I think my appreciation for the movie was heightened by the fact that I was pretty drunk for the first hour or so, which was about as long as it took the Hulk to actually show up. Ang Lee certainly took the material pretty damned seriously. Eric Bana was appropriately emotionless. The Hulk bashed up a tank and some helicopters, that was pretty neat. He also fought an enraged and enlarged (and looking to become engorged) killer French poodle. Seriously. Not so neat. All in all entertaining enough I suppose, but probably better to wait for the video. Evening of beer the second thus passed.

Must interrupt this gripping narrative to watch Ren and Stimpy.

Ha, Ren is amusing. Curiously, both episodes of Ren and Stimpy I have downloaded so far have used different parts of the New World Symphony by Dvorak as title music. How do I know? Because I downloaded that music as well. Dum dum duuuuuum! Hey, the modem cord reaches the floor. Outstanding news.